


Bucky's Plan For Recovery

by MarleyMortis



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Fluff, Apache Culture, Beardy Steve, Bottom Bucky, Brief Non-Con, Bucky Comes Out of Cryo, Bucky Learns to Love Nice Things, Canon Compliant, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Horses, Long-haired Steve, M/M, Nomad Steve, Pining, Post-Captain America: Civil War, Recovery, Rimming, Roadtrip, Slow Burn, Spoiled Bucky, Switching, Top Steve, lots of fluff, sassy Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2018-12-25 19:42:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 57,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12042906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarleyMortis/pseuds/MarleyMortis
Summary: Bucky Barnes comes out of cryostasis to a world in which Steve is a Little Black Rain Cloud, the world is moving on from the Sokovia Accords, and what the Hell is he gonna do with the rest of his life when all he wants is to get star spangled beard burn on his thighs?  Throw in a road trip and a bunch of super-powered kids who need training to become future Avengers, and he's not sure if he wants to get outta bed for anything but his man's pleasure.





	1. Bucky's Adventures In A Group Therapy Home

Things are a whirlwind from the moment Bucky comes back out of cryostasis to the familiar sight of Steve Rogers' ugly mug. Ugly is an inappropriate descriptor; the only thing ugly about Stevie is the green and yellow bruise painting his jaw, evidence of a recent fight. The rest of him is damn fine. Up to and including those broad shoulders he secretly wants to wrap his legs around while Stevie buries that golden boy face between Bucky's legs.

The beard and longer hair are different. No less exciting. Along with the black kevlar that fits Steve's body like an incredibly sexy glove. Did Steve take fashion advice from the Winter Soldier?

Right. Less pining. More whirlwind.

King T'Challa has good news and bad news. The good news comes in the form of news footage of some red-haired dame wearing a sleeker version of the Iron Man armor (he would know after being up close and personal with Stark's titanium monstrosity) leading General Ross out of his home in handcuffs. Turns out the dame is Pepper Potts, Tony Stark's on-again-off-again flame.

President Danvers, recently elected following the impeachment of Donald Trump and subsequent revelation that Mike Pence is affiliated with Hydra, calls for immediate amendments to the Sokovia Accords, and in a reversal of his previous stance, Stark comes out in favor of the amendments. They become known as the Vigilante Amendments and pass with a resounding majority.

First thing the new amendments do is to pardon the Avengers. Second thing they do is to pardon James Buchanan Barnes and classify him as a prisoner of war. Third thing they do is establish Avengers Academy, which will be operated out of the upstate New York facility to train vigilante crime fighters. Fourth thing they do is name General James Rhodes as the Avengers liaison to the United Nations.

He hopes that guy doesn't know how to hold a grudge. 'Cause Buck remembers some things about War Machine chasing them as they fled Leipzig Airport. Hell, if he'd been blasted outta the sky and paralyzed, he'd probably hold a grudge, too.

The amendments do some other things, too, but Bucky focuses mainly on that one clause, the one that says he's a free man and will no longer be shot on sight if he sticks his head outta his rabbit hole. He isn't too sure how much he deserves to write off a history of forced servitude filled with blood and murders, but Steve seems thrilled by the news. He's gonna take his cues from Steve right now.

So that sense of safety he was just talking about, the one where he's able to stick his head outta a rabbit hole without having it blown off? That feeling? Blows right out the window when President Danvers personally calls Steve begging him to relocate to the United States. This is Steve, right? Steve doesn't ignore his country's call, and Bucky silently freaks out while mentally packing his travel bag.

Surprising everyone, Steve refuses. Steve is sill pissed about how the Sokovia Accords went down. Steve will save the world the next time aliens invade looking to take over the planet, but Steve will not get involved with political nonsense any longer. Steve will not wear the red, white, and blue and submit to being a scapegoat for the government. Steve categorically refuses to pander to Fox News and the conservative pundits who believe they have any say in how Captain America behaves because Steve is a bisexual man, goddamn it, and won't spend the rest of his life being forced in a box.

Bucky's pretty sure the rainbow-colored glitter that just exploded past Steve's tighter-than-a-whale's-blowhole-control will stain most of their gear for the rest of their lives. The fact that Bucky doesn't bother hiding the gleeful grin eating up the real estate beneath his nose speaks to how proud he is of Steve. And possibly the fact that he just found out he has a small chance of winding up with Star Spangled beard burn roughing the insides of his thighs.

Which brings Bucky to T'Challa's bad news: there's no easy way to get rid of Soviet trigger words. It's not like pushing a magical button. Being conditioned with the intensity with which Bucky was conditioned means it will take equally hard work to undo the damage. In other words, heavy psychotherapy and de-conditioning protocols.

He thinks about fucking back off to cryostasis. The very idea of enduring psychotherapy just doesn't seem worth the effort when he figures his life's not gonna get much better. Between the nightmares and the guilt, he figures the easiest path off this fucking merry-go-round from Hell is the one he deserves.

'Course, then he looks at Steve's face and can't go through with it. Steve, who sticks out his chin like a champ. Steve, who says it's all right and that if Bucky needs to rest, he will understand. Steve, who'll sooner swallow a bullet than bleed on anyone else. Steve Steve Stevestevesteve. And it's always been Steve. And it always will be Steve. And fuck, he just can't leave that stupid face behind again.

So Bucky fucks himself off to some kind of specialized program on the outskirts of New Orleans where he lives in group home with a structured environment and attends group therapy three times a week and individualized therapy every day. And fuck, the food is...

Okay, so the food isn't as bad as he's expecting. They have pizza every Friday. Bucky develops strong feelings about pizza. And Mexican food. Shrimp chimichangas especially. It is entirely possible that he nearly comes to blows with a fellow patient over the last serving of fried ice cream. What? It's taking longer than expected to prevent violence from being his first instinct.

Therapy is whatever. He doesn't go into it expecting much. He's been partnered with a therapist named Kitomi Amari, who insists he call her “Kit.” First time he sees her, he laughs himself back out the door 'cause she's one point five meters-- No, he's American. He's supposed to say it the American way. She's four feet eleven inches of nothing, and he's gonna flatten her like blacktop the first time she challenges his world view.

Only that's not what happens. Kit is fearless. Kit stares him in the eye. Kit doesn't let him get away with his usual evasive maneuvers. She's like a general. When she barks an order, he asks how high.

Plus, she kinda reminds him of Jim Morita. No, it isn't just because they're both Japanese. Asians aren't all the same, racist fuckers. It's 'cause she's got the same steel in her guts. The way Morita used to somehow keep it cool despite being under heavy fire while relaying information over their shitty ass radio. Not an ounce of fear in his voice.

On this particular day, he's running late, having been caught up in a basketball game with a couple of other guests, so when he goes running into Kit's office, he completely forgets his manners, dips into a brief bow, and dives onto the sofa across the table from her comfy arm chair.

Once he's settled, he glances up to find her scowling and looking down at his feet.

“Shit. Fuck. Sorry.” 

Jumping up, he hurries back to the doorway, removes his sneakers, and settles them on the rack by the door, taking instead a pair of slippers. Then, he pauses, bows more deeply at the waist and waits for her to acknowledge him by bowing her head, hands folded in her lap. Finally, he manages a proper sit that doesn't make him look like a flailing monkey hopped up on crack cocain.

She doesn't say anything right away, just pours thin tea into a cup at his place setting and doles out strawberry rice cakes as befitting an informal Japanese tea. Once she settles the utensils, she moves her attention from the tea to him, signaling permission to begin eating and drinking.

He hated it at first, refused to touch anything she set in front of him, wouldn't eat or drink anything he hadn't prepared himself, and certainly nothing as decadent as the confections she offered when they were having tea. It seemed wrong, somehow, for him to enjoy tea and cakes while the people he'd killed couldn't enjoy anything but the grave.

Honestly, he can't remember the first time he picked up the cup during their sessions. He woke from the fog of his broken brain to find himself with cup in hand and the warmth and flavor of green tea on his tongue, bitter to round out the sugary, half-eaten pastry on his plate. Sipping tea and eating cakes became easier after that.

Bucky is pretty sure she tricked him into partaking of afternoon tea that day. Fuck if he knows how she managed it, though, but now it's no struggle to pick up a strawberry rice cake and bite into it. 

“Last week, we talked about learning how to reward yourself for positive behaviors.”

“Da.” He corrected himself. “I mean, yes.”

“Did you work on that over the weekend?”

His brow furrowed. “I didn't stab myself in the thigh when I cursed Hydra.”

“That is not entirely what I had in mind, but refusing to follow your conditioning is always a victory. Rather than not punishing yourself, you could have had an extra cupcake. Or taken a hot bath with those bath bombs I gave you.”

“The ones that smell like sugared grapefruit?” He has been obsessed with citrus smells lately but can hardly justify the idea of using something so decadent. Bath bombs are a luxury not meant for ex-assassins with a long history of murdering people.

“You're allowed nice things. You're allowed luxuries.”

He doesn't know what to say. He knows what Kit wants him to say. He knows the words that will make Kit happy and will cause her to write in her little notebook that he's making progress, but saying them is lying, and Bucky doesn't like to lie anymore. So he bows his head and crams another bite of rice cake in his mouth, refusing to make eye contact.

“Can you look at me?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you'll make me say the words, and if I say the words, I'll want nice things, and if I want nice things, the people I murdered--” He stopped and corrected himself. “The people Hydra made me murder won't have justice.”

“You think your suffering will give them justice?”

“Yes.” He blows out a breath. “No.” Finally, he sighs. “I don't know.”

“Then let's re-frame the thought. Is it possible you're placing undeserved blame on yourself in order to feel as though you had some control over what happened to you? Sometimes, we would rather be wrong than to admit to having no control.”

Fuck. 

He's never thought of it like that before. The very idea of not having control over himself or his future makes him hyperventilate at the best of times. As Kit says, being a murderer damages him less than having been unable to fight Hydra's programming. At least a murderer can go to prison and pay his debt to society through serving time or receiving the death penalty. There's a way to balance the scales. Someone who's weak and flawed and capable of being used by Hydra is just a waste of human flesh.

“Can you say it with me?”

Taking a deep breath, he repeats her mantra. “I'm allowed nice things. I'm allowed luxuries.”

That night, he drops a bomb into a tub of water and soaks up the warmth like a seal fleeing the Arctic. Bare toes trace patterns over the water spout, and from time to time, he selects a fresh strawberry from a bowl and eats it. And when he gets out of the bath, his skin is soft, and he spends an hour smoothing palms over thighs and stomach, fawning over the silken texture that pleases his senses.

Steve calls later that week. Sharon's on leave from the CIA and visiting Wakanda. Steve's taking her out to dinner. Bucky is a supportive friend. He tells his best guy to get out there and show her a good time, encourages his friend to go for it if Steve feels a connection to Sharon.

The whole time he's cheer-leading for Steve, he's sinking farther into the cushion of his comfy arm chair. Because it's better that Steve go out with Sharon. She's tough as nails. She's a stand-up dame. She's been there for Steve when the rest of the world turned their back on him.

Saying the words is like swallowing tar, but he still says them. “Go get 'er, tiger.”

“Thanks,” Steve returns with a new gruffness in his voice that wasn't there before Bucky went into cryo. No idea what put the gravel there. Steve won't talk about what he did during that year. “Hey, family visitations are coming up soon, right?”

“Next Tuesday, yeah.”

“So I'll see you then.”

“You don't gotta come. If you got something better to do.”

“Hey. No. There's nothing better than my best guy, right?”

He wants to snap, 'apparently there is, and she's got blond hair and legs for miles' but doesn't. Instead, he huffs into the phone connection. “Sure, pal.” A beat of silence passes. “Hey, you remember that Japanese tea Morita used to court like a dame?”

“Shit, you remember that? God, that was such a long time ago. He used to carry it around in a tin can and horde it like gold. Nabob's Matcha!”

“Right! You think they still make that?”

“Can't really say, Buck.”

“Could you find out and bring me some when you come for family day?”

*

To say that Bucky is stupidly excited the morning of Family Day is not an exaggeration. He has tried to play it chill. He thinks he was mostly successful at hiding his anxiousness in group yesterday to maintain his too-cool-for-school attitude, but that flies out the window the moment he sees Steve Rogers' bulk sashay through the doorway into the activity room.

Sometimes he forgets how huge Rogers is. Sometimes he also forgets how flip-floppy the beard and shaggy hair makes his tummy because he has to stop and take a breath to avoid the dopy smile his lips are pregnant with. Said smile dies the death of the damned when Sharon Carter strolls in behind Steve.

This is supposed to be Family Day. Sharon Carter is not family. Sharon Carter is the enemy. Bucky Barnes spends thirteen point two seconds thinking of twenty ways in which to kill Sharon Carter without leaving a mark on her body. Fingers curl into fists. Teeth gnash at the inside of his cheek.

Being happy for Steve over the phone is much different than being happy for him in person, so it's a good thing the Winter Soldier is most famous for his Murder Eyes because retreating to the distant chill of his wintery stare is the only way to avoid expressing displeasure at having their private time invaded by the enemy. An enemy with fucking blond hair and killer legs who just happens to be from the same genetics as Peggy-fucking-Carter.

His aspirations for getting Steve naked are so fucked.

“Buck, it's so good to see you,” Steve says while stepping forward for a hug.

Bucky, who is not very good at acting normal when he's not feeling normal, shies away from the hug. He can't help it if that hurts Steve. Steve has spent a lifetime hurting him with his stubbornness. Might as well return the favor in whatever small, passive-aggressive ways he can manage.

“Hi.”

Steve notes the tension in the atmosphere and backs off. He clears his throat and settles a plastic shopping bag on the table nearest them. “The two of you haven't met yet. This is Sharon. She really wanted to meet you in person.”

“Hello, Sergeant Barnes. Can I call you Bucky?” the woman extends her hand for a shake.

Bucky cocks his head to the side and stares at it like he has no idea what to do with the proffered appendage. Actually, he does. He wants to break it. In several places. While snarling “He's mine. My own. My Precious!” He doesn't. But he wants to, and eventually, she takes the hint and drops the hand back to her side.

Steve clears his throat again. “I found that tea you asked about over the phone.” He pushes the bag across the table.

Bucky snatches it up and looks at the gleaming tin can. It's actually an Indian brand of green tea, but Kit probably won't care that it's Indian instead of Japanese. She's a world traveler.

“Thanks.”

“Shall we sit?” asks Sharon.

'No,' he wants to say, 'we cannot sit. Steve can sit. I can sit. You can sit on a sword and spin.' He wants to say it but doesn't.

Instead, he pulls out a chair and drops into it with a huff.

“How's this place treating you, Buck?” asks Steve once he's gotten settled into a chair.

“Food's good.”

“That's great.”

“Don't wanna kill as many people as I thought I would.”

“Always a plus.”

An awkward silence descends around the table, silence in which Bucky chants to himself 'don't do it, don't do it, don't do it.' He does it. Asks, “How was your date?”

Sharon's face lights up. She spans the distance between her hand and Steve's to offer an affectionate squeeze and says, “It was lovely. Steve sure knows how to woo a girl.”

“Ah, come on. It wasn't nothing,” says Steve while his face fills with color. He rubs the back of his neck, still very awkward when it comes to dames and dating in a way that brings out the Brooklyn.

“Where'd he take you?”

“We visited the animal sanctuary in Wakanda and had dinner at an outdoor cafe.” She leans a little closer as one about to share a secret. “Between the two of us, your boy has two left feet. How he can be so graceful on the battlefield but so clumsy while dancing is a mystery.”

The frame of his chair cracks under the pressure of his bio-mechanical grip. While his jaw tenses, he manages not to shred the inside of his cheek between his teeth. “Never could teach the punk how to dance. Looks like some things don't change.”

“Hell, Buck. If the chorus girls in the USO couldn't teach me, nobody could.”

Bucky changes tracks without warning. “What's it like dating a lumber jack?” He jerks his thumb toward Steve. “He leave sawdust in your panties?”

Sharon glances toward Steve like she's asking him to translate for them, like she can't figure out if the comment's supposed to be funny or there's a burn in there she's missing.

“Bucky.”

“Right. Sorry. Inappropriate question. It's this brain of mine, you know. Got so many holes it might as well be an ant farm.” And he laughs, a pale imitation of laughter that prompts the continuance of their social transcript and allows them to fake laugh along with him.

And eventually Sharon goes, “Man, we should call him Leatherface because there was a chainsaw massacre up in my panties” while touching Steve's shoulder.

The pop culture reference is totally lost on Steve.

Bucky, who has been binging horror movies in his spare time, feels a bark of laughter escape before he realizes he's the one doing the laughing. Oh no. The enemy has made him laugh. The enemy has a steel spine and brash mouth, and those are things Bucky can admire. Bucky doesn't want to admire Sharon Carter. He wants her to walk over a cliff.

He just barely manages to hang onto a thread of his distaste.

The rest of their visit goes by with stilted words, and by the end, he's sure Steve understands that bringing his date to what should have been family time was the wrong thing to do. He's sure Steve hasn't done it maliciously. Steve doesn't have a malicious bone in his body, or at least he didn't before turning himself into a little black rain cloud. Who knows what else has changed.

When their two hours are up, Steve stands, pulls him in for a hug, holds him close, whispers in his ear, “You're doing so great, Buck. I'm so proud of you.”

And Bucky may or may not clutch a little tighter to the leather of Steve's black jacket than he intends to. He knows because his fingers ache when he finally releases Steve. “Call me, Pooh Bear.”

“Pooh Bear?”

Bucky's laughter is husky, and he slaps Steve on the back of the shoulder. “You need to watch more TV. Rot your brain a little more.”

“Hard to find the time when you're running around like crazy super-heroing.”

“That a verb now, punk?”

“It is if I say it is, jerk.”

“Me? All I got's time.” Then he spreads his arms wide and steps back from the table in the most dramatic exit he can manage while keeping his self-respect intact. He acknowledges Sharon with a single nod. And when she strolls out with Steve, he still hopes she walks over a cliff.

He spends the next month being plagued with social media pictures of Steve and Sharon going about polite society together. There are photos of them strolling in the park. Someone even captures an intimate shot of the couple kissing in Paris. In-fucking-Paris.

But the worst comes when images turn up of Steve with his arms around Sharon's waist looking out over the Grand Canyon. It isn't like Steve and Bucky promised each other they would see the Grand Canyon together after the war. Oh. Wait. They did make that promise back on the front lines.

Shit-pickles.

He really is losing his best friend and only connection to the modern world.

Consequently, his progress on the therapy front takes a nose dive. Right down the shitter. Hard to find motivation for the work of digging himself out of seventy years of abuse and trauma when the reason for him starting the journey no longer matters. 

Steve doesn't need him anymore. Steve is making a life for himself. Steve has a girlfriend he adores, friends who love and support him, and a rich life. Bucky can fuck himself back off to cryo without endangering the mental soundness of his best guy.

So he misses a few appointments. Refuses to leave his room for group therapy. Allows himself to sink back into the hole of nothingness where he isn't someone struggling to be a person and is merely a weapon waiting for someone to point and shoot.

It's boring as fuck, but it's what he knows.

That lasts for about a week before Kit drags him from his depression den by his ear, plants him on her sofa, and stares at him good and hard. He stares back with all the fury of the Winter Soldier.

“What?”

“You won't make me give up on you.”

He disparages her mother in Russian.

She repeats her sentiment in Japanese.

He's rude to her father in Polish.

She repeats her sentiment in Hindi.

He suggests the better part of her family tree dripped down her grandmother's leg. In Kazakh.

She repeats her sentiment in Mandarin.

Bucky caves first. He can't continue abusing her family line in the face of her refusal to back down and winds up cursing a string of nonsense in Vietnamese.

She gasps and rests a hand against her chest. “Did you just suggest my voice is like a frog?”

The dry tone she uses makes him laugh in spite of himself, and in its wake, there follows a moment of silence. He takes the time to calm the storm of his emotions. He's still learning to recognize and control them instead of flying off into tumultuous chaos.

“What happened?”

“Steve's dating someone.”

“That doesn't make you happy.”

Shame suddenly fills the vacuum inside his head. “I don't want him to.” Unable to look her in the eyes, he drops his chin to his chest. “He's mine. I thought we would have more time together, just the two of us. The way he followed me across the world... The way he fought and gave up everything for me.” He took a deep breath. “Fuck, I know it's stupid, okay? But it feels like I'm losing him. What happens when I lose him? Who the fuck am I without Steve Rogers?”

She spans the distance between them and touches his hand.

He flinches but doesn't pull back from the touch. Fuck, he misses being touched, and it's not like there's a bunch of people he lets get close enough to make physical contact, so he grabs onto her like a lifeline. And it feels good. So fucking good. Her skin against his. Her warmth against him.

“Emotions aren't stupid, Bucky.”

“They're not?” He glances up at her through his lashes.

“No. Sometimes emotions are unhealthy, but they're our brains' responses to external stimuli, and if we learn healthier ways of coping with our environment, our emotions will reflect that. Put in the hard work with me, and one day, your emotions can reflect a healthier grasp of the world.”

“It won't always be this way? Like chaos in my brain?”

“No.”

She wins his loyalty that day.

After, Bucky becomes a sponge. In some ways, it's healthy. He picks up information faster. Understands things better. In other ways, it's a step back. Because of his conditioning, he's prone to being very suggestible. It was Hydra's legacy. They taught him to absorb orders, and it's easy to transfer that to his post-Hydra personality.

It's beneficial when Kit suggests he pamper himself; it means he's less apt to struggle with accepting good things. Means he doesn't say no when some of the other residents ask him to play basketball or watch movies in the rec room. Gets him out and more sociable. But he doesn't know where to draw the line, so when a particularly troubled patient suggests Bucky help her escape the compound, he doesn't recognize that he should deny her request. He just goes along with it because he's trying to be useful, because that's what he does is obey directives.

Of course, it lands him in hot water with the director of the facility when it comes to light he helped the patient fly the coup, and that brings him to the second thing he learns about himself that week: being yelled at sucks. Like really sucks. It makes him clam up to protect that pearl hidden inside his muscle.

By the time Doctor Smith is through with him, his shoulders are hunched, and he's in a defensive posture in an attempt to hide his vulnerable areas, totally convinced he's about to be hit. Or somehow have his behavior corrected.

Dr. Smith recognizes his posture quickly enough to call Dr. Amari for an emergency consult. She drops what she's doing and rushes back to the office to be with Bucky and offers him the grounding touch he needs from familiar hands. Her tiny palm feels like a titan against his back, beating away the panic, chasing away the darkness in which nightmares are bred.

Then she turns her fury on Dr. Smith.

The next day, they go back to the proverbial drawing board to address his suggestible nature and learn ways of determining boundaries. It's not his favorite part of therapy. He just doesn't get it, doesn't understand the difference between “I should do this thing for myself” and “I should do this thing for this other person who looks earnestly in need.”

Kit thinks he's having trouble processing body language. Maybe he is. It's hard to read body language when he's been taught to suppress all emotions. Reconnecting those wires requires certain neural pathways he's completely lacking.

By that point, the facility has become home. He's grown comfortable living with his peers, comfortable with his therapists, comfortable with the work that will hopefully turn him back into a real boy, and it's at that point, Kit begins to suggest extra curricular activities outside the group home setting. There's only one emotion that screams to the forefront: terror.

*

Crowds bug the shit out of him. He does not like crowds. They suffocate him. The only thing preventing him from shrieking his way home is the insulating layer of peers from the group home surrounding him.

He doesn't much like them on a daily basis, but they are familiar, and familiar is good. His feelings about Knobby Nose Guy are an aberration. Knobby Nose Guy shares his chocolate pudding, and Bucky is a fiend for chocolate pudding. Knobby Nose Guy isn't so bad, therefore.

As they stroll down the crumbling and chaotic pathways of Saint Louis Cemetery Number One, he sticks close to Knobby Nose Guy, even manages a brief snort of laughter when Knobby Nose Guy makes a crack about one of the headstones looking like a penis. It's possible the person Bucky is becoming has a sense of humor that entirely exists inside a toilet. At any rate, Knobby Nose Guy is impressed by Bucky's laughter and spends the rest of the tour attempting to replicate the moment.

By the end of the tour, as the group is piling into Acme's Oyster House for an early dinner, he's learned that Knobby Nose Guy is actually named Ish-Kay-Nay. Ish-Kay-Nay goes on to explain he is a member of the Shish-Inday, who white men refer to as the Mescalero Apache, and he will not gift himself a real name until he's defeated the phantoms inside and developed his true personality.

Bucky suggests that Ish-Kay-Nay is a mouthful and promptly starts calling him James. Because everyone and their brother is named James. Even Bucky is named James.

Ish-Kay-Nay smacks Bucky upside the back of the head. “It's rude to ignore a person's given name in favor of making up your own simply because your tongue isn't talented enough to speak it.”

“My tongue is plenty talented, James.” He smiles around his smirk. Bucky will flirt with a wall if a wall is the only thing in flirting distance.

It strikes him only moments later that James has been physically violent with him without triggering the Winter Soldier protocols. He stops in his tracks and cocks his head to the side. “Huh. I didn't obliterate you with gross prejudice.”

“That was a concern?”

“Yes.”

James sidles a few steps farther away with a look that suggests he's not sure if Bucky has lost what few marbles remain inside his head, but moments later, Bucky's new friend grins and bumps their shoulders together. They head inside and find seats with the rest of the group.

“If James isn't acceptable, I could continue calling you Knobby Nose Guy.”

“Ugh, what is it with you and names?”

“Names are important,” he says, voice soft.

For a second, he thinks he catches a glimpse of blond hair and turns. Someone with blond hair is moving away, but he doesn't have a good enough vantage to see who it is. For a second, his heart beats faster with the thought Steve is checking in on him. But no. Steve would stay. Steve would pull up a chair and have dinner with him. Steve doesn't need to have dinner with him anymore. Steve has Sharon. Steve makes love with Sharon. It is what it is.

Kit waits for him in the foyer of the group home when they return from their outing. She looks at him expectantly. He shrugs and ducks his head to hide the brief smile working across his face, a smile that says more than words that he was wrong to be terrified of leaving the facility.

A grin softens her features, and she rests a hand on his shoulder and whispers, “I'm proud of you.”

It means everything to him, the fact that he can make her proud, and he goes to bed that night feeling as though he's accomplished something. One more barrier standing between him and reclaiming all the things Hydra stole from him crumbles, leaving a hesitant sense of optimism in its place.

The next morning, he wakes up wanting oysters so bad he considers sneaking out of the group home to get some. Security catches him and redirects him back to his room. None of the orderlies will make the drive into New Orleans to the oyster house either, much to Bucky's displeasure, so he wallows in bed, refusing to come out from under his covers until Kit makes an appearance.

“Are you having a bad morning?” she asks.

“You said I could have nice things. Oysters are nice things.”

“We don't always get what we want,” she responds while sitting in the chair she pulls next to his bed.

He lowers the blanket enough to peek at her. “My brain has the consistency of Swiss cheese. Teach me how to resist temptation later, when I'm not an abused puppy who deserves oysters for breakfast.” He even tries puffing his bottom lip in a pout.

“You had oysters last night.”

“You said I deserve good things, goddamn it! Either that's true or it's not true.”

A five year old having a temper tantrum is one thing. Adults are equipped to handle the outburst of a five year old. They are capable of restraining said toddler without risk of bodily injury. Two hundred plus pounds of Hydra-knock-off-super-soldier and vibranium metal arm having a temper tantrum is something entirely different, and the only thing Kit can do is get out of the way until he's expended the frustration-induced anger.

By the time he calms down, his room is in tatters. He's overturned the bed, knocked the dresser over, and spilled the entire contents of his closet all over the floor. When it passes, he stands amidst the chaos, shoulders heaving, the red film over his vision slowly retreating. It throbs in time with his heart.

Afterward, he's devastated. He's ashamed. He's distraught over displaying that kind of violence in front of Kit, who has been nothing but kind to him, and his emotions swing wildly toward tears. Dropping to his knees, he wraps both arms around his middle to hold himself together but can't fight the tears streaming down his face.

Kit doesn't even hesitate. She pulls him into her body and allows him to bury his face against her chest, holds him as he threatens to shake apart.

All he can do is chant “I'm sorry” repeatedly and “Please don't send me away.”

She doesn't send him away.

That is when he really beings to believe her when she says he won't make her give up on him. For as big of a tantrum as he threw, she doesn't so much as bat an eye about being in the room with him, and after a while, he settles enough to go through the mental process of understanding his emotions and learning when they're healthy and not healthy.

Being a person is exhausting.

Being a person who learns how to have friends is even more so, as evidenced by the day James—sorry, Ish-Kay-Nay, which apparently means boy in the native dialect of the Mescalero Apache—stumbles into Bucky's room in the midst of a crisis.

See, the thing is that Bucky doesn't really like emotions. Things were simple when he didn't have to be a person, and that means anything that disrupts his emotions, anything that makes waves, is bad touch and no mas pantalones. It's enough of a struggle on a daily basis to wrangle his own emotions let alone someone else's.

Therefore, he panics and turtles his head head inside his proverbial shell witnessing Ish-Kay-Nay's—fuck it, it's too hard to say on a consistent basis—James' emotional upheaval. He wants to throw holy water. He wants to hiss and scream “not today, Satan!” but remembers at the last second the day he crawled under James' chair in group and refused to come out instead of partaking in therapy.

So he draws his feet up, hugs his knees, and props chin against raised knees to stare his companion.

“My therapist thinks I'm ready to transition into a group home.”

“Thought this was a group home.”

“No, I mean a group home without live-in therapists. My therapist thinks I'm well enough to live more independently, and it scares the shit outta me.”

“They want you to move away?”

That is also bad touch. Bucky doesn't want that. He doesn't want his one friend to no longer be within easy access and waiting on the brief moments Bucky feels sociable enough to interact with people. It's not fair. He will not allow it. James is his, and Bucky is not good at letting go of things that are his. Just ask Steve-fucking-Rogers.

So James' panic triggers Bucky's panic, and they wind up sitting in the middle of Bucky's bed clinging to each other like a pair of buoys in the midst of an ocean current dragging them farther out to sea. The thought of losing the familiar comfort of James is all of Bucky's nopes, the entirety his negatives, and no-way-Jo-fucking-se.

It's something he brings up in therapy that afternoon with Kit, who reassures him he's not acting like a giant baby and that it's natural for him to cling to the familiar while his life is going through so much upheaval. Doesn't make him feel any less like an idiot, though. He was the Winter Soldier. The Winter Soldier does not have friends. He sure as fuck doesn't cling to friends like his life depends on it.

Speaking of friends, something weird happens about three weeks after Steve brought Sharon for a visit. Out of the blue, he gets an email from her (email is weird as fuck, but it's part of his ongoing process of rehabilitation that he's supposed to keep an email address). Part of him wonders if it's a computer virus. It may be an attempt to take out the enemy, and they are enemies in competition for the attention of one, Steven Grant Rogers.

She should respect his dibs, no take-backsies, goddamn it. Rogers was his first.

Turns out it's not a computer virus, not that he can tell anyway. It's a list of numbers and months with words corresponding to each number and month. According to the instructions, he's supposed to plug in his birth month and day and use those words to determine his stripper name.

He replies to the email.

_Dear Sharon,_

__

__

According to my birth month and day, my stripper name is Cinnamon Bomb.

What's yours?

_Sincerely,_

He erases “Eat Shit and Die.” He also erases “I Will Kill You In Your Sleep And Eat Your Soul.” Definitely, he backspaces to get rid of “Steve Rogers' Cock Is Mine” and settles for signing off the letter with “Cinnamon Bomb.”

Her response comes right away.

_Dear Cinnamon Bomb,_

__

__

My stripper name is Candy Thighs.

Sincerely,

_Candy Thighs_

He shuffles higher in his bed so his back is supported by the headrest and plops his laptop on his thighs to get more comfortable. Then, slurping a strawberry banana smoothie through a straw, he composes another email since he's just bored enough to consider talking to Sharon “Peggy Clone” Carter. For now. He'll likely kill her in the morning.

_Dear Candy Thighs,_

__

__

Favorite horror movie?

Sincerely,

_Cinnamon Bomb_

It's sickening how almost eager he is when his email signals an incoming message. He self-soothes by convincing his own conscience he should try to get along with Sharon for Steve's sake. 

_Dear Cinnamon Bomb,_

__

__

I Spit On Your Grave. The 1978 version. You?

Sincerely,

_Candy Thighs_

He composes a response.

_Dear Candy Thighs,_

__

__

I haven't watched I Spit On Your Grave. My favorite horror film Woman In Black. What is _I Spit On Your Grave about?_

__

__

Sincerely,

_Cinnamon Bomb_

Getting along with Sharon turns into an hour long exchange of emails about the merits of vintage horror versus modern day horror. He vaguely remembers being around for the early days of Bela Lugosi when movies like Dracula and White Zombie were the height of horror. Early films have a certain atmosphere modern horror lacks, but modern horror is just so damn visceral.

So he invites Ish-Kay-Nay over to his room that night. They make popcorn in the facility's microwave and curl up beneath the covers to watch I Spit On Your Grave. By the time they're half-way through, Bucky's got his pillow clutched against his chest and is staring at the screen with wide eyes and a fluttering heart because who the Hell makes a movie like this?

He's so engrossed (in the morbid train accident sort of way where he can't take his eyes off the screen no matter how much he wants to) that he ignores his cell phone chiming several times. Hiding his face in Ish-Kay-Nay's shoulder is the only reason he makes it through the film without having flashbacks, and he's pretty sure his friend deliberately covers Bucky's eyes a few times to prevent him from seeing the worst of the rape and torture scenes.

Finally, once the credits roll, he puts his phone to his ear. “Hello?”

Steve's voice emanates from the phone. “Do not watch that movie Sharon told you about via email.”

“Too late.”

Steve curses softly. “Are you okay?”

He can hear Sharon's voice just beyond the reach of the cell phone demanding to talk to Bucky.

“Of course I am, pal. 'S just a movie.”

“Damn it, Sharon. Stop it!”

She finally wrestles the phone from Steve, and her voice becomes louder. “I am so sorry, Bucky. It didn't occur to me that watching that might trigger you. You have to believe me, I did not set you up to stumble into something bad on purpose. God, I'm sorry.”

The weirdest thing about the whole exchange? He huffs laughter instead of chewing her out. “'S okay, Share.” Wait. A nickname? Ugh. “It's my responsibility to police what I watch, right? 'S what Kit's always saying to me. Gotta look out for myself.”

“Are you okay, though? I feel so badly about the whole thing.”

“Yeah, I'm good. Ishie watched it with me, so I wasn't alone.”

“Ishie?”

“Friend of mine here at the facility. He let me hide behind him when the movie got too graphic.”

“Thank fuck.”

Distance muffles Steve's voice when he says, “Language.”

“He's a grown man, Rogers,” she says. “I'm fairly certain he's heard worse than the eff-bomb.”

Bucky snickers again. “You tell that old man to change his granny panties.”

“Did you hear that, Steve? Bucky says you should change your granny panties.”

“Oh God, I've created a monster,” Steve says.

Bucky kind of agrees no matter how much he doesn't want to. Turns out that it's nice having backup when it comes to looking out for Steve Rogers. Guy needs a whole team of people watching out for him, especially recently when he's become so much less cautious than before.

Less cautious? There's a frightening thought. Steve isn't very good at taking care of himself to begin with. Ever since the Accords and his dispute with Tony happened, he's become even less so. Maybe it's anger. Maybe it's the sheer lack of fucks he has left to give. Whatever the reason, Bucky's glad Steve's got someone on the outside to take care of him. Even if that someone is a Peggy Carter clone.

*

The ongoing friend debacle comes to a head one afternoon when Bucky's having lunch in the garden. It's nice out, and he's gotten used to sitting in the sun, soaking up warmth like a cat. Sunbathing is the farthest thing from cryo he can think of, so he indulges on a daily basis.

He's just finishing a pastrami sandwich when Ishie flops down next to him with a grunt.

“James Proudstar.”

“Huh?”

“They're releasing me into an independent living facility next week; stop looking at me like I stepped on your cat; we'll still be friends. You'll get sick of me calling and texting. Trust me.”

So much for Bucky's happy kitty ears.

“When men come of age amongst the Shis-inday people—it means 'men of the woods' for our ancient wintering grounds in the forests of the Sierra Madre—they choose their names based on a particular character trait or feat of greatness. You named me James, but I choose Proudstar for myself. I found myself.” James smiles, then. “Everyone bet against me but I found myself.”

This is the part where Bucky isn't sure what's socially acceptable, so he barges in like a hippo in a ballerina tutu and asks, “What'd you do? Kill somebody or something?”

James—oh boy is Bucky sick of adapting to this guy's ongoing name debate—flinches. Thunderclouds develop in his expression. He makes to leave.

And Bucky? Bucky realizes he's stepped in it and blurts out, “'Cause I'd still be your friend if you did. Guy like me ain't got a lot of room to pass moral judgment after the shit I did for Hydra.” And it isn't until that moment he realizes how much he's been afraid of people finding out his identity as the Winter Soldier. This is the part where James turns the tables and does the walking out.

“What you did for Hydra?”

“I did... bad things.” He ducks his head, looks down at the fingers wringing in distress and doesn't immediately recognize they're mismatched and therefore belonging to him. “They made me.”

Awkward silence reigned supreme.

He continues, “So if you've done something... Just trying to say it wouldn't make no difference to me one way or another. You've been a good guy to me.”

Footsteps pad across the grass, and James' weight settles again next to Bucky. Moments later, a brown hand rests atop silver and peach. They don't speak for a while, just enjoy the quiet garden together, allow peace to soak into their bones.

After a while, James says, “My brother was killed while serving in Afghanistan. Something in me said his CO made a bad call, so I tried to get revenge. I didn't succeed, but I still tried. Almost went to prison for attempted murder, but my lawyer got me in touch with the people here.

“Turns out I got undiagnosed schizophrenia. Beat that, Buckaroo.”

Bucky shrugs and says quietly, “I was the Winter Soldier.”

Tension multiplies in the silence that follows.

James opens his mouth. He closes it. He opens it again. “Damn.”

Another crackle of silence.

James continues, “Let's get day passes and go into town. They got this sweet arcade just opening up. We can go shoot pixelated ducks and vent our aggression.” He concludes by pushing to his feet and holding a hand out to help Bucky up.

“Wait. That's it?” Bucky demands. He isn't sure whether he's miffed that the reveal wasn't very dramatic or entirely grateful his friend is willing to overlook his past misdeeds.

“What'd'ya want? A medal? Oh no! You're the Winter Soldier. Hide your babies! Hide your dogs!” James shrugs, his expression entirely nonchalant. “You been swell to me, and I figure if they let you come here 'stead of throwing you in a deep hole, then there musta been some extenuating circumstance. Either you were sick in the head or somebody forced you.

“Now, day passes. Arcade. We got a date with Duck Hunter. 'Less you'd rather sit around here moping the rest of the day. I hear moping's not very good for the stress lines.”

And Bucky just sort of shakes his head in disbelief, accepts the hand he's offered, and allows James Proudstar to haul him to his feet. First time telling someone new about his deep, dark secret, and it wasn't the impending thunderstorm he'd feared. Some kind of weight lifts off his shoulders when he realizes he can have friends, that people can accept him at face value without seeing the shadow of Hydra first and foremost.

So they get day passes from the office and hire a taxi to take them into town to the Coin Galore Arcade. He's never been to an arcade before. At first, the noise is a little overwhelming. The place is packed. Change jingles in pockets. Computerized noises buffet him from all sides. A little yellow blob is chased around a maze by ghosts while eating smaller, white dots.

Eventually, though, he acclimates to the new stimuli and backs away from the proverbial edge that makes his breathing rattle out of control. Once he has a handle on it, he follows James inside and mimics the way James stuffs a five dollar bill into a machine in order to prompt the machine to spit out a load of quarters. Bucky gathers his quarters and heads off.

They find Duck Hunter in the back of the arcade. Bucky pops in the required quarters, gathers the gun tethered to the machine by a cable, and murders a shit load of pixelated ducks. Damn near breaks the machine pumping more quarters into it because he's forgotten what it feels like to have a rifle in his hand. He's forgotten how good his accuracy makes him feel.

Maybe he shouldn't be proud. Hydra used that innate ability for awful things, but he knows, he knows, Hydra didn't implant this gift into his bones. It's all him, and he desperately seeks something to make him feel good about himself. If that's murdering pixelated ducks at an unprecedented rate, well, then that's how it has to be.

“Fuck, man. When they said you were a sharp-shooter, I wasn't expecting that,” James exclaims once Bucky's latest game is over. He claps Bucky on the back of the shoulder. “Now you get to see my specialty.” James waves toward a pair of machines that have racing seats and wheels attached.

So Bucky, his mood suddenly elevated, bounces over to take his position behind one of the wheels. He pumps his quarters in, and they go to town. Rather, he fights to keep his car from crashing into the arcade-style obstacles the game throws his way while James cackles like a maniac.

“Hey, you know, the object's to stay on the road, right?”

“Shut up.”

He hits the gear shift to put his car back into motion and takes off down the track again. A switchback curve proves his undoing this time, and he plows into some hay bales while James goes zooming past.

“Hello,” James cries. “Goodbye.”

“Shit-pickles.”

James beats him by two laps.

“Rematch.”

“I wouldn't wanna embarrass you again, Buckaroo.”

“I'm a centenarian. Give an old man a beak and let him get used to the newfangled technology before racing him. Rematch. Or you'll wake up with my metal fist in your face.”

James barks laughter and capitulates then proceeds to lap Bucky three times during the following race.

Bucky decides to salvage what's left of his dignity.

After the arcade, they catch a late movie, and fuck, it's been forever since he's just sat in a movie theater and watched something on the big screen. It makes him ache for Steve, for the memories of sitting cuddled close to Steve in Brooklyn, allowing their shoulders to press together while the lights were dim and his proximity could be forgiven because of the crowd surrounding them.

He never told Steve how he felt back then. It woulda been kinda hard to say to his best pal, “I wanna kiss you all over” when they were reared in the Catholic church and heard repeatedly that boys loving boys is an abomination. Steve was a lot more devout back then than Bucky. He really doesn't want to imagine the shit-storm if he ever mentioned his desires.

Of course, now, he figures he's going to Hell anyway. Might as well enjoy all the butt sex he can get until he dies since living a pure life isn't gonna change his final destination none. The question still remains unclear as to whether he wants to drag Steve down to Hell with him.

But times, they are a-changing. Word has it some churches accept homosexuality. Some people claim it isn't a sin. Some even suggest a person is born that way, and if you're born that way, you aren't responsible for answering to the Lord Almighty when you get to the pearly gates.

What sitting in that movie theater, shoulder pressed warmly against James', does is give him a powerful hankering for Steve Rogers' voice. He excuses himself, heads out to the lobby and dials Steve.

It takes a few rings for Steve to answer. “Heya, Buck,” the man says, voice groggy.

“Shit, did I wake you? I woke you. Go back to sleep.” Bucky mashes the button to terminate the call.

Seconds later, his phone rings. He answers.

“Stop hanging up on me like an angsty teen,” Steve greets with humor in his voice. “Oh God, do you remember you at fourteen? You wanted to ask Molly Brown to the winter formal but woke up that morning with a red, angry zit right in your chin. You woulda thought the world was coming to an end.”

Bucky allows his disjointed memories to circulate before finding a snippet of that memory. “Molly Brown went with Seamus O'Rourke, didn't she?”

“Because you refused to come out from behind your math workbook long enough to ask her.”

“Was that the year you went with Shannon Burke?”

“Yeah, Buck,” Steve says, sounding fond. “'Bout the only year I had a date to the formal.”

“She was a real classy dame. Whatever happened to her? Why didn't you two ever date after that?”

“Entered into the nunnery, I think. We didn't date again 'cause I wasn't especially interested in dating her long term. She was a swell dame, don't get me wrong, but I liked somebody else.”

“Who?”

Steve clears his throat, starts to answer, only to stutter to a stop. “So how's Kit treating you?”

Bucky allows the diversion, as he doesn't want to make Steve uncomfortable. “Real good, pal. She's a peach.” He changes the subject by asking, “Hey, you coming down this month for family day?”

“Sure am. Wouldn't miss it for the world.”

“Bringing Share this time?”

“Nope. CIA's got her deployed on a covert operation, so it'll just be you and me.”

The conversation doesn't last much longer. Steve's tired, and James exits the movie theater, prompting Bucky to say his goodbyes. James and him head back home afterward.

He thinks about Steve's hesitation in the taxi home and later, as he lies staring up at his bedroom ceiling. Thing is, he can't help but wonder what Steve was gonna say before stopping himself. He wants to imagine it was his name on Steve's tongue.

Steve would say it in a breathy whisper. He would say, “You, Buck. 'Cause I wanted to date you.”

And Buck would say, “Me? Why didn't you say nothing sooner?”

And Steve would say, “'Cause I didn't know how, but I wanna figure it out. With you.”

A tremulous smile works its way onto Bucky's lips. Fingertips nudge beneath the waistband of his boxers and rake through the coarse hair at his groin, which is the first thing that'll go if he ever gets a shot at Steve Rogers. He doesn't want nothing as coarse as pubic hair irritating Stevie's skin.

His cock plumps nicely thinking about miles and miles of the golden skin and firm muscle that makes up Captain Rogers. It twitches with want remembering Stevie Rogers with his pale skin and svelte body. Bucky isn't picky. He loves Steve in every iteration because it isn't the body so much as it is the lion-sized heart within.

Doesn't take him long to realize he's forgotten what it's like to masturbate. Sure, he's experienced sex since falling off the train. Some of it was even consensual, like with Natalia, who had been a bright spot amidst the horrors wrought by Hydra. Mostly, though, he fucked to fulfill a mission, fucked because he was ordered to, fucked for Hydra's insatiable need to create more like him, to use him to breed another generation susceptible to their super serum.

So saying his relationship with sex is messed up isn't a lie, and he's forgotten what it feels like to enjoy pleasure for the sake of pleasure. 

His first few tugs are tentative, fingers and palm learning the shape and texture of himself while hiding beneath his blanket. The glans, he finds out, is extra sensitive, and he spends a while ghosting his thumb over the silken flesh there and tugging at his foreskin, rolling it up over the glans and experimenting with the tightness of his grip.

Some part of him feels wrong to be doing this. He feels ashamed, like a handler will burst into his room at any moment and catch him in the act of self-pleasure, but that makes him all the more determined to reclaim this part of himself. He tucks the waistband of his boxers behind his balls and grabs the bottle of lotion from his nightstand.

He gives himself permission to have something good and experiments with various grip strengths and speeds until he finds a rhythm that makes his hips arch from the bed, that makes him gasp for breath and long for the thick hands of Captain Rogers or the thin, artistic fingers of Stevie Rogers. 

Then, he realizes it's not about Steve. This is about him. It's about him taking back something Hydra stole from him. It's about his hand giving pleasure and his body experiencing the tight coil of attraction. It's about loving himself enough to want to feel good, as Kit would say. Because he's allowed. Because he's given himself permission to experience bliss.

Bucky tenses, knees bending only to straighten as he tries to figure out what to do with his body until finally, finally he orgasms. The tension snaps. The spring unloads is coil. He gasps through it, feels drops of his own semen splatter against his chest, against his bottom lip where he darts a tongue out to steal the flavor of his own release.

It's great, he realizes in the aftermath, to give himself permission to want and to have nice things, to not hold himself responsible for the evils Hydra forced upon him.

*

The next morning, he has a flashback in the middle of group therapy, sees himself murdering a scientist inside the scientist's home. The guy's son stumbles into the situation in the midst of the execution. Protocol says no witnesses are left behind, but it's a fucking child, no more than three, so instead of eliminating the witness, he wraps the boy up and delivers him to a hospital.

Hydra finds out. They desensitize him by strapping him into a chair and subjecting him to videos of children blowing themselves up in the name of terrorism. He's left in the chair for four days watching bits of child rain down from the sky and listening to his handler repeating “Children are soldiers. Children are enemy combatants. Children are being trained for war.”

He finds out later that the child he dropped off at the hospital was killed execution style by a Black Widow along with the entirety of the child's foster family.

Bucky breaks down, scuttles himself into a corner, and hugs his knees despite the best efforts of the leading therapist to coax him back to his room. Not even Kit can get through to him. All he can do is mutter “Children are soldiers. Children are enemy combatants. Children are being trained for war.”

He stays there for two days. He doesn't eat or drink. He has no control over his bladder.

On the third day, the doors to the meeting room open, and Steve rushes inside. Steve crouches in front of him and reaches hesitantly to make contact, and Bucky goes to him like a baby bird, arms opening, allowing himself to be pulled into the familiar embrace, pressing his face into the other man's neck.

The dam finally crumbles, and he allows himself to cry, his body shaking with sobs, and during the worst of it, he begs. He begs Steve to let him go back into cryo, pleads to be allowed to sleep forever to escape the horrors in his mind. It's all he's good for now.

Steve soothes him as best he can and finally capitulates, finally says that if it's really too hard, then he won't stop Bucky from going back to sleep.

He eases back and looks into Steve's face for any sign of a lie, but there's none there. There's nothing in Steve's expression except misery and sympathy and tears. He believes in that moment that Steve would stand back and allow him to make his own decision on going into cryo.

Bucky doesn't. Things aren't so raw the following morning. The whole thing still sucks like a black-fucking-hole, but he's a little more functional. Waking up with Steve sitting in a nearby armchair looking disheveled with circles under his eyes gives him a few minutes of distance, and for the first time, he really looks at Steve, at the man Steve's become.

There are new lines on the man's face. 

Bucky thinks about the reverse situation, how he would feel if Steve went into cryostasis.

Empathy was surprisingly easy to reconnect inside his brain. Feeling monstrous about killing someone is rooted primarily in empathy. It's the empathy of knowing how valuable life is and the moral judgment that he has no right to deprive someone of their life. 

So he wakes up. He gets dressed. He has breakfast with Steve in the cafeteria. He introduces Steve to James. They get along like a house on fire. Then, he goes into session with Kit, who assures him that setbacks are normal, that recovery isn't linear.

Taking ten huge leaps backward sucks, sure, but if it's normal, he can hardly allow his frustration to reach a boiling point. No one ever says recovery is easy. But sometimes, recovery can be worth the struggle it takes to get there.


	2. Bucky and Steve Take a Roadtrip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Steve get to learn more about each other while road-tripping from New Orleans to New York. Some angst happens a long the way. Also some fluff and these two goobers proving why Hydra couldn't come between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: There's a section in this where Bucky gets himself into a situation that almost turns into a non-consensual encounter, but Steve gets there in time to prevent it. It happens after Steve leaves the bar to talk to Sharon on the phone.

There's no ticket tape parade the day Bucky's discharged from his group home. It's a windy, rainy sort of day, and he exits the front door with his suitcase to be greeted by Steve leaning up against the side of an SUV, legs crossed at the ankles. Steve looks casual in black jeans, a gray sweater, and black jacket. He hasn't shaved or cut his hair, the latter of which has grown enough to pull back in a messy bun.

Bucky's smile is almost shy when Steve takes his suitcase to load into the back seat, and as he climbs into the passenger seat to strap himself in, he asks, “So where are we headed?”

“Upstate New York. The Avengers facility there is being converted into an academy for the training of new Avenger recruits, but I thought we'd drive. Maybe see a little bit of the country if that's okay.”

“I thought you and the Avengers were on the outs.” He slinks down in the seat and props his sneaker-clad foot on the dashboard.

Steve looks like he wants to say something but doesn't. Instead, he clears his throat and says, “They need someone with the proper training to make sure those recruits can operate safely in a combat scenario. I agreed to do this for their sakes, not for the government or the United Nations.”

“Hey, you don't gotta justify to me, pal. Steve Rogers, Headmaster? Sounds like a nice, safe environment where I don't gotta worry about whether or not you're getting your head blown off. What about me, though? Stark know I'm gonna be under his roof?”

“Stark doesn't really have a say in the matter now that the United Nations funds and operates the Avengers Initiative. He donated the land and facility to Avenger operations.”

Bucky acknowledges the comment with a nod and proceeds to look out the side window at the scenery passing by. It feels like his life is in a huge transition phase, and he's not sure what he wants or where he fits outside the strictly regimented confines of the therapeutic facility. 

Of course, they didn't just throw him out to let him swim without direction. He's still going to be in contact with Kit. He'll still attend therapy with her via Skype, and they put him through endless classes teaching him the necessary skills for daily living. He knows how to balance a checkbook, how to grocery shop, how to budget, how to read and sign contracts. They taught him about job skills and helped him get references in the event he wants to work.

It just feels rather like he's Steve Rogers' cling-on, and he's not sure what he's supposed to do when they reach the facility in New York. He doesn't have a role there and might struggle carving out a place for him to fit. He hopes like Hell they don't expect him to be a teacher.

He's in the midst of such contemplations when Steve's phone chimes.

Steve taps a button that sends the call into his blue tooth headset. He greets Sharon.

Bucky tries not to listen in but can't help but notice when the conversation hits a sour patch and turns from the banter of a loving couple to the tension of a brewing argument. From the sounds of things, Sharon won't make it home in time for a pre-planned event. He gathers this isn't the first time something like this has happened by the frustration in Steve's voice, and by the time Steve ends the call, the guy's knuckles whiten from squeezing the steering wheel.

Bucky scrambles for a topic, something to distract his companion. “Where'd you learn to drive, anyway? 'Cause what we did in Europe during the war couldn't barely pass for driving.”

A smile flashes across Steve's countenance. “You remember that time Mr. Woźniak let you drive the delivery truck to make that delivery out to Brighton Beach?”

Laughter bubbles outta him. “Don't look at me, pal. I was doing fine until you insisted on driving on the way home. You reckon they ever figured out who totaled the governor's car?”

“God, I hope not. Somewhere out there, someone's gonna release a tell-all about the time little Stevie Rogers plowed into Governor Lehman's convertible Phaeton. My name'll be mud then.”

Once they get going, they chat for several hours, reminiscing about the days before the war, and it doesn't hurt Bucky the way it used to when he comes up against blank spaces, places where memories haven't returned. It no longer feels like cheating to ask Steve for the missing information. Instead, it's like coming home and relearning pieces of himself.

Around about dinner time, Steve asks where Bucky would like to stop for a bite to eat.

Bucky says he doesn't care.

So Steve insists that he surely has a preference.

But Bucky claims he can find something to eat anywhere they stop.

His companion looks frustrated but eventually blows out a long breath and cocks a grin in Bucky's direction. Finally, Steve goes, “All right, pal” and pulls off the highway and into the parking lot of a little Mom and Pop restaurant called The Two Bits.

Skeptical is a good way to describe how he feels looking at the place from the outside. “You sure you wanna eat here, Rogers?”

“Oh come on! First you don't have an opinion, and now you do?”

“Just saying the place could use a little refurbishing, and if they don't got the money for refurbishment, then what's that saying about the quality of their food?”

“Says the guy who put newspapers over his windows in Bucharest.”

“Hey, that was tactically sound.”

“And that rat hole you holed up in in Moscow?”

“A desperate guy on the run from Hydra and the international law enforcement community...”

Steve grins. Because Steve is messing with him. Since Steve is a little shit.

Bucky huffs and sulks his way from the passenger seat. “Fine. You wanna catch salmonella, don't let me stop you. I'm having pie. Nobody never got food poisoning from pie.”

He starts with pie. Turns out the pie is so damn good he breaks down and orders the meatloaf dinner and proceeds to moan like he's having the best orgasm of his life when he takes a bite.

“God, it's better than my ma's.”

They engage in a brief skirmish over Steve's plate as he tries stealing a forkful of Steve's baked Mac and Cheese and comes away the victor. The texture is creamy, and the flavor is cheesy and perfect with just the right amount of crisp to the crust, and Bucky orders himself a side of the Mac and Cheese.

By the time they leave, Steve threatens him with a wheelbarrow. Getting himself back into the SUV is an accomplishment worthy of being knighted. He pats his stomach, leans his head back against the headrest, and grins over at his companion.

“I wanna hear you say it.”

“What?”

“You know what.”

“You were right, and I was wrong? Thank you, Stevie, for showing me the error of my ways? I will never argue against your choice of places to eat?”

“Good enough.” Steve flashes another grin and reaches over to rest his warm palm atop Bucky's hand.

Silence engulfs them. Something charges the silence, a thing he doesn't want to put a name to for fear of leading himself in a direction that would prove heartbreaking. Instead, he breaks the silence by suggesting they get a room somewhere for the night.

They end up taking a room in a motel a few blocks from The Two Bits. No one recognizes them as Steve procures a room from the front office, and when they key inside, they find a quaint countryside room decorated with cows. Bovine dot the comforters. A faux cow-hide covers the floor in front of a fireplace. There are even cows on the shower curtain.

Pausing, Bucky chuffs, decides he's seen weirder, and tosses his suitcase on the bed closest to the door. If Steve feels like fighting him for that position, he keeps his damn mouth shut. Thank God.

First thing he does, though, is pace until hyper-awareness bleeds into something closer to apprehension as he fights to ignore the desire to check for exits and sight lines; normal people don't wander into a motel room and immediately think it's bugged. 

Turns out, he needn't have bothered. His companion takes care of all that in the first ten minutes, leaving Bucky to head into the bathroom to take a long, hot shower. The water pressure is to die for.

He emerges a while later with a white towel wrapped around his waist and stops in front of his duffel. He pauses. He peeks over his shoulder only to be disappointed upon finding Steve facing the opposite direction fiddling with the television set. How is he supposed to determine if Steve's newly-revealed bisexual orientation will work in his favor if Steve won't look while Bucky is preening?

Seconds later, he feels slightly bad. Just a smidgeon. He probably shouldn't be actively attempting to woo Sharon's boyfriend. What kind of friend interjects trouble into their pal's apparently healthy relationship? Not a good one, that's for sure.

So he's riding a razor edge between selfishness and morality when he drops his towel and steps into a pair of boxer briefs, intending to put the conundrum to bed for further study. Then, something crashes behind him, causing him to whip around. He finds Steve hopping in place while cradling his shin, and the coffee table in front of a cow-print sofa is on its side.

A brow arches. “Thought the serum took care of your clumsiness.”

“Yeah, well...” Steve doesn't finish. Red paints the apples of his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

Bucky drags a t-shirt over his head. A picture of Gargamel from the Smurfs is silk-screened onto the front. His wardrobe is one of the first things he's taken control of post-thaw thanks to a generous allowance from King T'Challa.

Steve clears his throat and asks, “You wanna watch a movie on pay-per-view?”

“Sure.”

“Got a preference?”

“Nope.”

“There anything I should avoid putting on?”

“Nope.”

“Do you like pastrami sandwiches?”

“Nope.”

“Ah ha! You aren't even listening.”

Bucky's shoulders ascend toward his ears, a turtle shell attempting to protect his soft interior. It isn't that he's not listening. He's gotten into a loop and is willing to agree with anything Steve wants because he's suggestible. And because he doesn't want to risk upsetting anyone.

“I-- That is--” His stuttering fades into a single curse. “Fuck.”

“Hey, it's okay, pal.”

He becomes aware of Steve's nearness.

“Can I touch you?”

Bucky nods.

A warm palm slides onto the back of his shoulder and rubs soothing circles there, and Steve asks, “What do you need for me to do?”

“Just don't yell at me,” he whispers. “Don't like it when people yell at me. Makes me think they're gonna punish me.”

“Punish you?”

His flesh arm tremors when he lifts his shirt and traces a sickle-shaped burn high on his chest. It's small, no bigger than a child's hand, but it's an indelible part of him now, a reminder that he belongs to Russia. Or did at one point. He shows Steve another brand on the nape of his neck and another on the sole of his foot. There are three hammers scattered on his body, too. One right on his spine just above the flare of his glutes, a second in his flesh armpit, and the third on his perineum.

“Punishment.”

“Jesus--” Steve cuts off whatever he starts to say. He turns Bucky and pulls him into Steve's arms, crushes him there where it's safe and warm.

Tension keeps him stiff for the first few heartbeats, but slowly, Bucky melts into the embrace, presses his face into Steve's solid chest, and allows himself to just breathe. Steve smells different. Used to be he smelled of charcoal and medicine. Now he smells of laundry detergent and antiperspirant, it's not a familiar smell, but it's still Steve.

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

“I know,” Bucky murmurs.

It takes a while for him to fall asleep that night, but he's comforted by Steve's even breathing and all the stupid cows that are so out of place with anything Hydra ever subjected him to.

*

The next day, they drive a few hours and stop at Graceland. Elvis Presley was more than a decade past their expiration dates, but he's such a pop culture phenomenon that they swing out of their way in order to visit his mansion. Bucky isn't sorry. Bucky kind of falls in love with the flashy costumes encrusted with sequins and gems. Anyone who has the balls to wear flash like that deserves his respect.

He gets several compliments on his shirt, which showcases a picture of Darth Vader, and they decide to stay the night at Heartbreak Hotel in a suite glamorizing Elvis' Hollywood career.

As they're settling in, Bucky checks his email. There's a whole lot of spam, a couple of snarky emails from Sam, which Bucky responds to with a devil emoticon, and notices from Pinterest about people liking his pins. He likes to pin architecture that catches his attention. So far, his favorite is Frank Lloyd Wright's Ennis House. He likes the block structure. There's something soothing about the order of the blocks and the repeating patterns carved into them.

Lastly, there's an email from Sharon. The link directs him to a quiz on Zimbio titled “Which Famous Movie Character is Your Soulmate.” He answers the questions while waiting for Steve to get back from getting them some take out. When he's done, the quiz assures him his soul mate is the Dude. Because the Dude will always be there for you. The Dude won't pressure you and will accept your relaxed nature and go with the flow.

“Huh.”

He emails back.

_Dear Candy Thighs,_

_Got the Dude._

_You?_

_Sincerely,_

_Cinnamon Bomb_

He receives a response pretty quickly.

_Dear Cinnamon Bomb,_

_Mine's Maximus Decimus Meridius. He'll always keep me entertained. He's strict but loyal. He'll protect and give his life for me, but if I ever cheat on him, he'll reap terrible vengeance._

_Sincerely,_

_Candy Thighs_

So he composes a new email.

_Dear Candy Thighs,_

_Think something went wrong with my quiz. Me? Relaxed? Last time I was relaxed, I used one of Kit's bath bombs and burned some incense. Coconut oil does wonders for my hair._

_Sincerely,_

_Cinnamon Bomb_

She responds in a timely fashion.

_Dear Cinnamon Bomb,_

_Bath bombs?! I didn't know you were into that sort of thing. We should do a spa day whenever we both have the time. In the meantime, I'm sending you a gift card to Bath and Body Works. Treat yourself to someone wonderful._

_Sincerely,_

_Candy Thighs_

They continue to email each other until Steve keys into the room with bags of take out, mostly sharing links for different boutique sites specializing in personal hygiene. No way is Bucky ever again going to be hosed down with a cold blast of water. He's going to enjoy bath time, damn it.

When Steve returns, he smiles up at his best pal, who inquires what he's gotten up to. Bucky turns his laptop around to show Steve the email chain from Candy Thighs, and Steve asks when Bucky started emailing a stripper. Giggles burst out of Bucky, and he hides his face behind his hands.

Weight settles on the side of the bed as Steve sits. Warm hands curl around Bucky's wrists, one metal and one flesh, and urge hands away from face where they share a warm sort of glance. Steve's smile is gentle, tender. Bucky's lacks the weight and care it once possessed. They revel in the eye contact, in the intimate feeling burgeoning between them.

He thinks they might kiss, and it causes his heart to flutter like a hummingbird. His tongue darts out to moisten his lips in anticipation only to feel bad again about dreaming of kissing Sharon's boyfriend. It's not right. It's not something a friend should do, so he eases back against the pillows.

“What'dya bring me, pal?”

They sleep, and the next day, Steve winds a path toward Sweetwater where they visit The Lost Sea, an underground lake where the remains of a prehistoric Jaguar were once found. Guides board their tour group onto a boat, and they glide across the still waters, Bucky leaning against the railing and pointing out glassy-eyed, blind fish adapted to life inside a cave.

At one point, the boat bumps against an outcropping of rock, and his body sways dangerously. Firm, strong hands grip his hips, and he finds himself strapped between the steely bands of Steve's arms, who now grips the railing on either side of Bucky to bracket him in safety. Who the fuck can blame Bucky for leaning back into the warmth of his companion's chest? He dares anyone to ignore the siren's song of Steve Rogers' giant heart and solid pecs.

On the way out, the guide points out a pile of atomic survival supplies left over and unopened from the Cold War when nuclear war seemed inevitable. Bucky kinda wants to grab one of the boxes and crack it open to see what's inside. He knows better than to do it, though, but the curiosity is still there.

After, they get back on the highway and drive for several more hours, crossing the border into Kentucky. Once there, they pull off at Cave City and find the Wigwam Village Motel where weary travelers can spend the night in a concrete teepee. The rooms are tiny. The floors are tile, and there's barely any air circulating inside, but it makes Bucky nostalgic for their Brooklyn days.

Steve's cell rings as they're unloading their baggage, and the guy hurries off to take the call with some semblance of privacy. The smile on his face indicates it's Sharon. Only a handful of people have the ability to make his smile go from twitterpated to frustrated in a few heartbeats. That's always been the way with people Steve truly cares about.

When he gets off the phone, he's practically vibrating and jabs both sets of fingers through his hair, pulling strands free from the man-bun it's been twisted up in all day. A heavy breath escapes.

“Trouble in Paradise?”

His companion grunts then responds, “Sharon's angry with me. She thought we'd be back in New York by now and rearranged plans to meet us there. Told her we were having a little road trip, but that didn't calm her down much.” He pauses for a moment only to speak again in a faltering tone. “I love her, Buck, but... Fuck, I don't know. There's something wrong with me. Like I can't be as emotionally close as I need to. She wants more, but I don't know if I've got more to give her.”

It's moments like these where Bucky needs to take a good, hard look at himself and decide if he wants to be a good friend or really, really selfish. Steve listens to him, and it'd be so easy to sway the man with just a few words, manipulate sticky fingers into the relationship Steve's building with Sharon. But that would be wrong. So very wrong. And a betrayal of every trust Steve places in him.

He pads up behind the man, wrapping both arms around Steve's waist and propping his chin on his best pal's solid shoulder. Of course he can't betray Steve. Of course this is one of those times he's gotta do the selfless thing in order to make Steve happy.

“Seems to me like you're a little gun-shy, pal, and you got plenty of reason to be,” he says after a few moments soul-searching. “It's like you always said. You don't know how to talk to women. Then you fall for Peggy, and look how that turns out. You ain't had a lot of reason to let yourself be close to people lately. Takes some getting used to is all.”

“Then it turns out my best pal isn't dead. Then he pulls me outta the Potomac and leaves me there on the banks and runs away. I finally find him again, and he tries to run again, and when I think he's finally done running, he throws himself back into deep-freeze.”

Tension snaps Bucky rigid again, and he withdraws from Steve to return to his bed where he continues fishing out toiletries. The twitching muscle in his jaw acts up from how tightly he clenches his teeth together. This point of contention isn't ready to give up the ghost apparently.

“Sorry. I'm sorry, Buck.” A quiet breath steadies the other man. “I know you did what you felt you had to, and I got no room to criticize your decisions. God knows I've made some doozies in my day.”

“You handled your shit in your way, and nothing I said could change your mind back when you was Hell-bent on enlisting. Don't try to tell me it had nothing to do with you having plenty to prove to the world. Let me handle my shit my way.”

“Sorry. I keep trying to make it about me when it wasn't about me.” 

Steve's forearms wrap loosely around Buck's waist, giving him plenty of opportunity to escape, and Bucky fucking missed this, how casually affectionate they always were together. It had either been him slinging his arm over Steve's shoulder or Steve grabbing him by his shirt front and dragging him around where the little shit wanted him. Both palms settle over the forearms holding him.

“Let's find a bar,” he finally says. “Go out. Have a few drinks. Just the two of us. Like it used to be.”

The other man huffs. “Not sure it used to be just the two of us a lot whenever we went out drinking. You always seemed to wind up with a couple-a dames on your arms.”

“I don't want any dames on my arms anymore,” he breathed.

“What? I didn't catch that, Buck.”

“Never mind.” He turns in Steve's arms. “So what'dya say?”

Neon lights and the sound of country twang pulls them down the street to a watering hole that's clearly done itself up to capitalize on tourism dollars. It's a tourist town, so no one pays much attention when they enter, and they find a pair of empty seats at the bar to order a couple of beers.

Relaxation eventually softens Steve's harsh posture, allowing him to sag into his stool. He's got the sleeves of a navy henley rolled up to his elbows, showing off thick forearms. A vein snakes its way up the man's hand, branching into different paths as they carry blood throughout his limb. The buttons are open, revealing collarbones, the valley between Steve's pecs, and a dusting of golden hair on his chest.

He's beautiful, but then Bucky had always known that. Steve, the walking mountain, is gorgeous. Steve, the willowy wisp who still didn't know how to bend without breaking, was gorgeous, too, and Bucky buries his face in a Jack and Coke to avid doing something foolish. Like telling his best pal how much he longs for those arms to hold him close and never let him go.

A suggestion that they play pool dies on his lips when Steve's cell vibrates again. The guy retrieves it, and Bucky can just see Sharon's face lighting up the screen.

“Sorry, I gotta take this,” he says. “I'll be right outside.” He strides from the bar on purposeful steps.

Bucky attempts to drown his misery by draining the rest of his drink. Now, alcohol doesn't affect Stevie anymore, more's the pity, and it doesn't treat Bucky that well either. He can get drunk if he pounds back enough alcohol in a short enough time. The buzz usually lasts for a pleasant amount of time before fading quickly.

Still, he hasn't had enough to drink to make him impaired when a couple of dames join him. They slide onto the bar stools on either side of him and introduce themselves as Brandy and Crystal. They're attractive, but then, he thinks most women are attractive regardless of size, shape, or color. There's just something about a woman's bone structure that he finds unmistakably stunning.

They get to chatting, ask him to buy them drinks, and he does. Because his ma raised him right, and he's got the funds to indulge them. And he's feeling just bad enough about the situation with Stevie that he doesn't resist when they offer to blow him out back. It's been so long since he's been touched by hands that want to give pleasure instead of cause pain.

It's not until they take him out back to a camper and another guy joins them that he feels any stirring of alarm. The guy isn't necessarily huge. Bucky's sure he can take him, but there's something about him that strikes a discordant note of tension; it's the tattoos. The guy has tattoos up and down the inside of his forearm that remind Bucky of one of his previous handlers. Said handler is dead, but the resemblance is enough to put him in a certain mindset.

The girls push Bucky down onto the bed. They open his trousers. Brandy's red lips wrap around his cock while the guy goes down on Crystal, and Bucky wants to tell them to stop. It's poised on the tip of his tongue, but the fear of punishment stoppers his voice. He's supposed to comply. Compliance is what he's built for, so he says nothing and wills himself to get hard to please Brandy.

It doesn't work. His cock remains soft between his thighs, the fear of reprisal too strong to allow him the head-space necessary to feel aroused. He tries to apologize.

Brandy laughs and says, “Hey, maybe it's not pussy that turns you on, yeah? That guy you was sitting with sure was beefy. Bobby-Ray, switch me places if you wanna.”

The guy grins around a mouthful of Crystal's nipple. It pops free with an obscene sound, and he crawls over to straddle Bucky's waist. “S'okay. You just relax and let me take care of you. Gonna get my cock up in that tight ass and make you feel real good.”

Compliance above all else. Neutralize expression. Follow orders. Want what Handler wants.

Bucky nods and turns onto his hands and knees to assume the position.

A sudden commotion freezes all activity inside the camper. Someone pounds on the door.

“Buck, you in there?” Steve sounds worried.

“Y-yeah. I'm ok-kay. G-g-o back to the m-motel. I'll b-b-be there soon.”

“Buck?”

“It's f-f-fine.”

The door wrenches open anyway. No metal latch is enough to deter the super soldier serum, and Steve steps up inside the camper, broad shoulders filling the doorway. Light limns him from behind, casting him in shadow, but he's never looked so good to Bucky than he does right then.

“What the fuck is this?” demands Steve.

The guy speaks first. “Who the Hell are you? We was just having a little fun.”

Bucky swallows past the bile in his throat and twitches his hand, holds his fingers toward Steve in the desperate hope the other man will read into the motion how desperately Bucky wants out of this situation without being able to say it in words. Suggestible, Kit called him. Too suggestible to recognize how he can't consent right then.

“Get up,” Steve snaps.

He pushes the guy aside, tosses the girls a withering look, and grasps Bucky's hand to pull him from the small pile of sleeping bags and sheets. Moments later, Bucky is cradled against Steve's chest, and that's when the shakes catch up with him. He doesn't even have the presence of mind to right his jeans, just sucks in breath after breath in an attempt to find some sort of emotional balance and autonomy.

“Didn't you fucking notice how glazed his eyes are? Don't fucking pick up people at a bar. Drunk people can't consent to sex. Assholes.” And because Steve is Steve and has a legendary temper, he punches Bobby-Ray square in the jaw before scooping Bucky into his arms and exiting the camper.

They stop briefly in the shadow of the building in order for Steve to right Bucky's jeans, pulling them into position, zipping them, and buttoning them closed before scooping him back up bridal style. Angry strides take them down the sidewalk.

Fear pulses low in Bucky's gut, fear of Steve's silence, fear he's gone a step too far, but he can't bring himself to say anything that might redirect Steve's attention to him. All he can do is shake. And curse his own name in twelve different languages for not being stronger.

He doesn't start coming out of the daze until they're back in the teepee, at which point, he finds himself wrapped up in a blanket with Steve's big palms chafing his upper arms. The shivers slowly subside. Eventually, he pushes himself away from Steve's chest and sits up to take stock of himself. Everything seems in one piece. Hydra's programming hasn't overwritten the Bucky he's spent years becoming.

But there's still the anxiety low in his gut over Steve's reaction, and he would rather get that over with sooner than later. So he takes a fortifying breath and says, “Say something.”

“What do you want me to say, Buck?”

“Yell at me.” His voice shakes. “Tell me what a worthless fuck I am. Remind me how I can't even take proper care of myself. Can't live independently. Can't hold a weapon. Can't... Fuck.”

“Hey,” croons Steve. “Hey, look at me, pal.”

With mounting trepidation, he turns his head to bring Steve into his peripheral vision.

“I'm not angry with you. What happened isn't your fault. Those people took advantage of you.”

“'S not their fault. Went with them willingly enough.”

“Did you want to be there and have sex with them?”

He shakes his head.

“Could you tell them no?”

He shrugs.

“Did you try to tell them no?”

He nods.

“Then it's on them to realize you were spacing out. They didn't do that. Buck.” Then, tenderness smoothing ever word, he says, “I'm not mad at you. You would have done the same for me.”

“Can I--” He breaks off and hugs himself.

“What?”

“Can you hold me again?”

“Sure thing, pal.”

Steve leans back against the headboard and pats the spot between his legs, arms open and inviting.

In tiny increments, like cats who think the visual acuity of humans is based on movement, he creeps toward Steve. An inch at a time. Terrified of spooking Steve and losing the comfort radiating from the other man. When movement doesn't startle Steve back to reality, Bucky plunges the final few inches in a rush to tuck himself between his companion's legs, body pressed up against Steve's chest.

Those strong arms close around him, enfolding him in warmth and safety, and Bucky releases a breath he hasn't realized he's been holding. He turns his face into Steve's chest. He hides there, safe for now.

“How did you find me?” he asks after a while.

“The bartender watched you go out back with those women. Said she'd seen them around before and figured they were taking you to their camper.”

A moment of quiet passes.

“I'm so glad I got there in time. Didn't let you fall again.”

“Got some news for you. You didn't let me fall the first time, pal.”

*

That conversation crops up again the next day as they're having lunch inside Mammoth Cave. They signed up for a wild cave tour and spent most of the morning climbing through the claustrophobic confines of the cave behind a professional spelunker. Now, Steve and Bucky have separated themselves from the rest of the small tour group to eat quietly at the outskirts of the lantern light.

Bucky wipes as much mud from his hands and wrists as possible before peeling open his sandwich. “What fool notion you got crawling in that skull of yours, Rogers? Who the fuck convinced you that you were responsible for me falling from that train?”

“Common sense? You wouldn't have been there if it weren't for me. They were gonna give you a medical discharge and send you home until I opened my fat mouth and suggested you for the Howling Commandos. If you hadn't been there--”

“If I hadn't been there, I'd be bones inside some casket somewhere right now.”

“Wouldn't that be better?” Steve looks down at his own partially eaten sandwich. “Better than what you went through? Than what Hydra did to you?”

He ducks his head to catch Steve's gaze and responds, “What Hydra did to me was a heaping bucket of shit. Not gonna argue with you there. But all this?” He indicates the general state of their existence. “It isn't so bad. If I had to wade through that to be here right now, then I'm gonna count it as a win. The future, Stevie. How many times we talk about inventing a time machine and seeing what the future was gonna be like?”

A tiny grin quirks Steve's mouth. “God, look at you right now. I'm so proud of you, Buck.”

“Ah, shut up. Don't go getting all sappy on me.” He bumps their shoulders together and allows the sentimentality to bleed into something more serious. “Thing is, all this started before I fell. It started in Zola's lab, and you sure as fuck aren't responsible for anything that happened to me there.”

“If I'd just reached farther... Or fallen after y--”

“No.” Bucky grips Steve's chin, forces the other man to make eye contact. “You don't get to burden yourself with shit that happened to me. It was my choice to stay in the war. It was my choice to be a Commando. It was my choice to be on that train. It was my choice to pick up that shield. You don't get to take credit for my choices. I save you. You save me. That's what we are, Rogers.”

Steve's eyes glisten with moisture, and he finally nods. He nods and blows out a shallow breath.

Bucky bumps their foreheads together.

They finish lunch, and their spelunking expert suggests they get moving again. There's still another four hours of caving to do before they return to the surface, so Bucky straps his helmet back on, flicks on the flashlight, and cleans up after himself so as not to leave any trace of his passing behind.

Tight spaces have never given Bucky pause. He's spent most of the last seven decades housed inside a cramped cryostasis tank, so when the tunnel they duck-walk into narrows, he transitions onto his belly and slithers through the pinch. 

Space opens again on the other side into a vast cavern filled with mounds of fallen rock and uneven terrain. The tour group spreads out to explore a little while waiting for Steve, who brings up the rear, to finish maneuvering the pinch.

Bucky stands and gapes. Darkness undulates around the limits of his head lamp, a sea of blackness that quiets his mind. There's something comforting about all that ebony. For a few moments, he allows himself to become lost, head tilted back, breathing deep of the moist, cool air. No worries plague him. Thoughts of the past drift away. This, he thinks, is what it feels like to be free.

A scrabbling sound behind him pulls his attention back to the pinch, and he crouches near the exit waiting for Steve to join them. Steve doesn't. Not after long minutes.

Concerned, he drops onto his belly to crawl back inside, finding Steve about half-way through, cheek resting against the ground, body lax, chest pumping like bellows with hitching breaths.

“Hey, pal,” Bucky greets.

“I'm stuck.”

Steve tries rocking himself forward to no avail.

“Okay. Let's just breathe deep. I'll try to see where you're caught.”

There's just enough room for him to slide his arm in beside Steve's body, but it's his companion's breathing he's really worried about. Steve's breaths are beginning to lose an even rhythm. He's gasping more than he's breathing, and in his mounting panic, the big guy damn near crushes Bucky's arm between his solid body and the wall of the cave.

“Steve,” Bucky snaps in an authoritative tone. “You have to calm down. Try to control your breathing and relax. Relax, pal.”

Steve tries, bless him. He relaxes every muscle in his body and manages a few calming breaths.

“I wasn't afraid of the Vita Ray machine at first,” he whispers. “Then the pain started.”

Bucky's shoulder wrenches at an awkward angle, and he shouts back to their tour guide who's come to investigate. Finally, his palm brushes over the canteen strapped to Steve's waist and finds it lodged against an outcropping of rock.

“Keep talking, Stevie.”

“I lived in my pain my whole life before that day. Scoliosis, bad joints. Hell, you know what it was like. There were days I couldn't get outta bed for my bad joints. But that machine...” Steve's breathing starts failing again. “Suddenly grew whole inches of bone, new muscle and tendons, sinew.” He gasps in another few breaths. “Felt like I was being ripped apart and remade.”

Bucky pauses to grip Steve's chin and force eye contact again. “You're gonna hyperventilate if you don't calm down. Breathe, Stevie.”

“I can't,” the other man gasps. His eyes dilate as reason gives way to panic, and Steve claws at the rock surrounding him. Nails split. Blood reddens stone. He scrambles for freedom but manages no forward momentum, and the only reason he doesn't brain himself is due to his caving helmet.

“Steve,” Bucky says, attempting to keep his own breathing and voice calm. He captures one of Steve's flailing hands and pulls it flush against Bucky's chest, flattening it over his heart. “Sweetheart, you remember? You remember when your asthma was bad? Breathe with me. Come on, honey. We're gonna do this together.”

Bucky pulls in an even breath and continues crooning in an attempt to break through the panic. “Deep breaths, sweetheart. You can do it.”

Finally, Steve pulls in an even breath.

“That's it. There's my darling. Breathe again, sweetheart.”

They both take another deep breath, and some of the tension begins to bleed from Steve.

“There you go. Hey, sweetheart, can you look at me?”

Steve pries his gaze away from the stone beneath him to meet blue against blue.

“You've already been through the worst things a person can imagine, sweetheart. This is nothing. This is a cake walk compared to what you've already shouldered, okay? Now, you're gonna roll just a little, and I'm gonna undo your belt, and that's gonna release you from being stuck.

“When we get outta here, we're gonna have a nice, hot shower back at the wigwam and watch a movie, and everything's gonna be fine. You just gotta keep breathing nice and sweet for me, okay?”

The other man just nods.

Bucky coaxes him into shifting his weight just enough for him to unlatch the fastening on Steve's harness, which finally allows him to slither forward, leaving his harness and the water canteen behind. Moments later, they both stumble from the pinch into the open cavern where Bucky cradles his sweetheart against his chest, giving Steve the privacy to fall apart for a few minutes.

Their tour guide looks concerned and inquires as to Steve's condition, and Bucky reassures him Steve will be fine, and Steve is. He pulls himself back together enough to sit criss-cross applesauce in front of Bucky, at which point, Bucky uses both palms to wipe copious tear tracts from his companion's face.

The rest of the tour is uneventful, and once they emerge into the welcome sunshine, they take the SUV back to Cave City and their concrete teepee. As promised, they both have hot showers, and Bucky figures out how to order a pizza delivery so neither has to drive out for food. It gives him ample opportunity to coax Steve into his bed where they curl up to watch a mindless movie, Steve's head pillowed on Bucky's chest.

At some point, the other man drifts to sleep, and like Hell will Bucky disturb Steve once he gets sound. Rather, he stretches far enough to retrieve his laptop and boots it up to check his email. There's a couple of things from Kit. She sends along some exercises to help him process the events at the bar the night before, tools for him to learn how and when to say no.

An email from Sharon stands out amongst the rest. It doesn't open with their usual light tone. It reads: 

_Dear Bucky,_

_When you get to New York, I'm breaking up with Steve. Don't get me wrong. Steve is a great guy. We work well together. We have a lot of fun, but it's clear he's not in love with me. I thought maybe he could learn to love me, and I think that he's really tried. But he can't give me anymore than he already has. He can't because he's already in love with someone else._

_He's already in love with you._

_Bucky fumbles the laptop and damn near drops it, saving the poor computer by the skin of its teeth._

_And I think that you're also in love with him._

_The way you talk about each other... You can see it in your eyes when you look at one another. There's so much affection and love there, but I'm afraid neither of you will find the courage to make something of it. Both way too afraid of ruining what you already have to try for more._

_This is me telling you that you don't need to worry about that. A lot of people would say it's not my place to meddle in your relationship, but you're a couple of stubborn old pricks too blinded by the decade in which you were raised. Someone has to give you both the kick in the pants you need._

_Take the risk, Bucky. Tell him how you feel. Let him tell you how he feels. You both deserve as much happiness as you can wrest from this world. There's no one better to take care of Steve Rogers than Bucky Barnes, so don't let your fear win out this time._

_Always Your Friend,_

_Sharon Carter_

He sits in silence for a while, turning over Sharon's letter to look at it from all its angles. To say that he's surprised is putting it mildly. Sharon gains nothing out of maneuvering them through their stubborn silence and loses everything. She gets dragged through what will be a very public break-up. Her name will be all over Fox News, who lauds Steve Rogers and Sharon Carter as the epitome of the traditional family.

So he can't find any reason why she would lie.

Eventually, he composes a response.

_Dear Sharon,_

_What about you?_

_Your Friend,_

_Bucky_

Her response is slow to arrive.

_Dear Bucky,_

_I'm not saying it doesn't hurt. Steve is an amazing man, and I love him in my way, but this relationship isn't something I stumbled into blindly. Part of me was aware right from the start that I was a replacement for Aunt Peggy. Not on purpose, of course. Steve wouldn't knowingly hurt me._

_You know, I'm not as upset as I thought I'd be. What does that say about me?_

_Yours,_

_Sharon_

He watches a few minutes of the movie, leans over and presses a kiss into the crown of Steve's head, and then responds once he's allowed his thoughts to calm.

_Dear Sharon,_

_I think you're very brave and very selfless._

_Yours,_

_Bucky_

Her response is quicker this time.

_Dear Bucky,_

_The same could be said about you._

_I don't need to tell you this, but take care of him. He's a very special person. You both are._

_Please, don't mention these emails to him. I'll tell him in person when you both arrive. This isn't something you do over the telephone. Until then, help him to get out of his own head and have some fun. Fuck knows you both deserve some fun after everything you've been through._

_Yours,_

_Sharon_

He closes his laptop and wiggles enough to settle it on the floor beside his bed. Then, uncertain about how to react emotionally, he snuggles against Steve, closing both arms around the man's broad shoulders. Does Steve love him the way Sharon claims?

Sure, they've loved each other since childhood, but that is a different sort of love. The emotion swelling inside Bucky's chest isn't like that love at all. It's bigger, all-encompassing. His chest aches like it will burst open from trying to contain something so huge. When he's away from Steve, he wants to be near him. When he's near Steve, he wants to climb inside his skin.

Finally, he reaches a point where he wants to strangle Sharon for telling him this ahead of time. How is he supposed to go the next couple of weeks knowing Steve's relationship is about to end but saying nothing? His heart already aches for his best pal. No matter what happens, Steve winds up hurt.

All Bucky can do is be there for him through the process, and if what Sharon claims is true, they can let whatever they feel for each other develop naturally. If it's something Steve wants to pursue. If not...? If not then Bucky will just have to continue the way he is, loving Steve from afar.

He presses another kiss to the crown of Steve's head and mumbles into the soft locks, “Love you.”

He falls asleep feeling more comfortable than he has since before the war, Steve's solid body anchoring him to the present, his face mashed against long, golden locks that smell sweetly of Steve's shampoo.

*

The next day finds them stopping in the early afternoon in Lexington at the Kentucky Horse Park. Neither of them have much experience with horses. They ran into a few during the war, and Steve once had an encounter with a carriage horse near Central Park that wound up slobbering all over his straw-colored hair. But Bucky likes their velvety muzzles. He likes the tickle of their whiskers against his palm and the scent of grass, hay, and horse when they blow breaths against his cheek.

One old mare in the Carriage Horse barn lips at Bucky's fingers until he unlatches her stall door and steps inside, leaving Steve to have a conniption fit about how “That's against the rules, Buck! You can't go in there!”

“Ah, I'm not hurting nothing,” he says and winds both arms around Cheese's neck to press his face into her horseflesh. “You think I could have a horse once we get to New York?”

“Sure, Buck. I'll get you ten horses if you just come outta there.”

They don't get kicked out by the grace of Bucky's charm, who smiles prettily at the employee who catches him inside the stall. The pair get to talking, and she gets him a brush and shows him how to brush Cheese down, and by the end of the day, he's looking through classifieds on the internet advertising horses for sale.

That evening finds them driving through West Virginia where they stop briefly at the Barbour County Historical Museum. There are two mummies housed in the bathroom. The mummies belong to two women whose cadavers an amateur scientist bought from an insane asylum so he could practice his embalming techniques.

The encounter startles Steve, turns him pensive for the rest of the afternoon, and Bucky can't bring him out of it, so they stop at a chain hotel for the night. Lying around in bed is something he's growing used to. His old handlers would say he's getting soft, but Kit's lessons assure him he deserves soft things after what he's been through.

He gets Steve to join him on his bed, and Bucky reads the book he's currently working on aloud while combing fingers through his companion's hair. The long, golden strands curl beneath the nape of Steve's neck now, and Bucky is sort of in love with it. He buries his face in it. Inhales deeply of peaches and cream and Steve.

Whatever Steve's mood is, he comes out of it at dinner, another Mom and Pop place that has some of the best country fried steak Bucky's ever eaten. He lays his fork down and rests his real hand across Steve's when Steve begins speaking.

“Seeing those mummies made me think about the ice. There were times when I was lucid.”

A mew of pain escapes Bucky, and he moves his chair around their table to sit closer.

“I wasn't aware of the passage of time or anything. I just remember thinking that it was Hell. You weren't there, so it had to be Hell.”

“Steve...”

“I'm not telling you this to make you feel bad, Buck. Just... Those mummies, how rigid and trapped they are. Made me think about being trapped in the ice. Trouble is I felt like I deserved it. They didn't. They just happened to be born with mental illnesses and families who didn't care enough to pick up their bodies for burial.”

Acknowledging emotion is important, he remembers. It's one of the skills Kit drilled into him at the facility. Perception is reality. As long as Steve perceives his own guilt, that is his reality, so Bucky doesn't try to take those emotions away from him. He merely links their arms together and rests his cheek against Steve's shoulder to encourage him to continue talking.

Steve does. Haltingly. He talks about his feelings of guilt. He speaks about his frustration and feeling directionless without a war to fight. “After all,” he says, “everything special about me came out of a bottle.” Then, in a softer voice, he shares his feelings of isolation and loneliness after being woken from the ice, how no one bothered reaching beyond Captain America to find Steve Rogers until Nat (and later, Sam) dove beneath the ice to resurrect him.

All Bucky's cajoling to find out who told Steve that line about the bottle fails to unseal the other man's lips. If and when Bucky finds out who said it, they'll be drinking their food through a straw.

The following day, they snake their way through West Virginia to visit the Mystery Hole in Ansted. Paying fourteen bucks gets them both into the basement where signs proclaim “If your heart can take it, see where natural laws are defied.” Bucky isn't terribly impressed, so they leave after a quick explore and get back on the road into Pennsylvania.

There's plenty to do in Pennsylvania, and since it's the last leg of their trip, they stay a few days, seeing Haines Shoe House, taking a ghost tour at Eastern State Penitentiary (Steve is totally unimpressed, but Bucky swears he sees a dark shadow darting through one of the upper levels), and touring the Hershey's Chocolate Factory. He thinks about asking Steve to find a wheelbarrow after all the samples he consumes reduces him to lying in the middle of the floor moaning in misery.

One excursion leaves him feeling hollow for the rest of the day, forcing them to take shelter at a hotel until the following morning. Centralia, Pennsylvania causes vague images to resurface, phantoms of old memories about a mission that took place below the ground in Centralia. Like willow-the-wisps, they flit away before he can fully grasp their meaning. All he remembers are flashes of people, Howard Stark, Peggy Carter, a redhead S.H.I.E.L.D agent, and an explosion.

The following day, they visit Gettysburg and then drive to Philadelphia to hit up the Mutter Museum. Maybe he should feel strange surrounded by physical oddities. He himself is a physical oddity and curls his hand protectively around the shoulder joint of his metal prosthetic. He doesn't, though. It makes him feel oddly quiet. Like he's not a freak of engineering. Like he's not an experiment.

Three days later, Steve drives down a long road hidden away behind heavy security. Avengers Academy lies at the end of the road, a collection of buildings and barracks that sit quietly in the afternoon sun. Quinjets aren't taking off from the various launching pads. No cars dot the numerous parking lots. Nothing stirs but for one lone figure standing on a balcony high up on the main building, her blonde hair flowing loose around her shoulders.

Bucky takes a deep breath and steps into his new life.


	3. Bucky Becomes A Teacher...Reluctantly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky begins his new life at Avengers Academy and expands his social circle. By a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter earns the E rating. Like, really earns it.

Feet pound down the main hallway, accompanied by a shriek as a toddler barrels toward him. Some distance behind, the kid's mother brings up the rear, her swollen stomach slowing her considerably. Bucky crouches, snatches the child in his arms, and rises, settling Nathaniel against his hip.

Laura catches up a few seconds later, obviously winded from her sprint and a hand clutching the stitch in her side. “Fucking Barton spawn,” she hisses only to flinch and look abashed at her own use of language. “Darn that Barton spawn.”

Laughter bubbles out of Bucky, and he bounces the kid against his hip.

Seconds later, Nathaniel yells, “Fuck!” at the top of his young lungs.

Laura flinches again and says, “I can't even blame it on Clint this time.”

“How soon?” he asks while waving his free hand toward her stomach.

“Two months.”

“Barton breeds like a rabbit.”

“His virile ass--” She clamps a hand over her mouth.

“Ass! Ass! Ass!”

Finally, she holds her arms out to take Nathaniel. “His father's getting snipped this time.”

“Good,” Bucky agrees, “easier for him to heal from being snipped than for you to have yourself fixed.”

“That's what she said,” Clint says, materializing from one of the classrooms where he's been teaching one of their newest students, Kate Bishop, accuracy skills.

Kate meanders out after him looking smug. “Next time, old man!” she cries before taking off down the hall at a lope, body radiating all the energy and arrogance of a teenager hopped up on their own invincibility. She'll be the death of Clint judging by the way Clint favors his left knee.

Barton takes Nathaniel from his wife's arms and leans to press kisses against her belly. Then he asks, “You giving in and agreeing to take over urban warfare yet?”

“None of you want me responsible for the care and training of impressionable youths,” he responds.

“Come on, Mr. Roboto. Steve's got me teaching sniping, urban warfare, and spy skills. Have a heart, will ya? I got a newborn on the way. How can you say no to this face?” He pinches Laura's cheeks together to make her mouth puff out in a pout.

She slaps his hand away and suggests he do something physically impossible with his own hand. Seconds later, Nathaniel parrots the comment like a good little music-box. It makes Bucky and Clint burst into fits of giggles, and she slaps them both upside the backs of their heads.

“I'm taking my son back to his tutor. The two of you can get hosed for all I care.” That said, she gathers her son against her hip and saunters off down the hall.

“Fifty bucks says you're sleeping on the sofa tonight,” Bucky claims.

“Man, you don't got fifty bucks to your name, and if I take anymore of Steve's money, he's gonna be buying his drawers at the local thrift shop.”

“Lies. I've seen Steve's bank account since it's been released from federal monitoring.”

The atmosphere turns somber after another moment, and Clint asks, “How's he doing? He took the break-up with Sharon pretty hard. Nat's been bugging me to get him back in the saddle and set him up with some people in town.”

Bucky isn't entirely sure how to answer that question. It's been two months since Sharon broke up with Steve, two months since they moved into Avengers Academy and Steve took over headmaster duties. There were tears and long nights spent eating tubs of ice cream on the sofa at first, but those have bled into general malaise. Steve wasn't even mad about Sharon telling Bucky first.

His pal spends his days burying himself in work and his nights on the sofa, either working some more or drowning himself in mindless reality television. Seriously, if Bucky has to sit through one more episode of Big Brother, he's gonna go ape-shit. While he knew Steve wouldn't handle the break up well, he didn't expect Steve to react as poorly as he has.

Eventually, he responds, “Maybe we should all take him dancing or something. He doesn't respond well to being set up. Trust me, I know. But if we all go out together, someone might catch his eye.”

Convincing Steve to go is a different matter entirely, but eventually Bucky pouts hard enough that Steve caves. Gracelessly. And bitches the whole afternoon until Bucky vents frustration by shoving the other man into the shower fully dressed.

The club they choose is some trendy place that's guaranteed to have a nice mix of patrons. Bass pounds beneath the melody of some random dance music as they head inside where Clint, Natasha, and Sam meet them. Sam, who has taken time off his duties as the new Captain America, rushes forward to sling his arm around Steve's shoulder. Sam, whose presence brightens Steve considerably.

“Sorry it took us so long,” Bucky says and jabs his thumb in Steve's direction. “This guy took forever on his hair. Clearly, I created a monster.”

Something lights up behind Rogers' baby blues, and he says, “Shh. Do you hear that? That's the sound of forgiveness.”

Sam jumps in on the heels of Steve's comment to say, “That's the sound of people drowning, Karl.”

“That,” Steve continues, “is what forgiveness sounds like: screaming and then silence.”

Bucky raises a brow, and glances at the rest of their gathering to determine if they have any idea what phantasms have invaded Steve and Sam's bodies, and how they might go about exorcising them.

Clint just snickers, though, and says, “You two have watched too much Llamas With Hats.”

“I didn't know you'd be here!” exclaims Steve while embracing Sam.

“Hey, man. I heard how legendarily bad your dance skills are. Figured I couldn't miss out on seeing this in person, you know. How's it going, Murder Eyes?”

“Terribly,” Bucky responds in monotone.

“Whatever, Little Black Raincloud. Let's get this party started.”

Sam doesn't dance. Natasha tries to pull him onto the dance floor. He bats her hands away and instead makes sure their group is never without drinks. Not that drinking does a single thing to Steve, and Bucky isn't motivated enough to slam down shots fast enough to get a buzz.

Everyone's having a good time except Steve, who's behaving like a horse's ass. He finds something wrong with every dance partner Clint and Bucky dredge up for him. Eventually, Bucky gets so frustrated he pulls Steve into the middle of the throng of dancers to show him how to move along with the beat of the music. Steve gives in gracelessly.

And oh boy, does Bucky do everything in his power to ignore the sway of Steve's hips and ass. Who's he kidding? It'd take a saint to ignore those powerful glutes wrapped up inside those painted-on jeans, but he gives Steve space, and eventually, the guy doesn't shy away from a slim, Nepalese man who moves in close to grind against Steve's thigh.

Shit-pickles.

He doesn't realize until too late what it does to him watching Steve with someone else. The surge of jealousy is hot and vicious. Hurt slithers in on its heels because Steve is willing to grind up against some stranger before he even considers grinding against Bucky. 

Something thick and painful settles in the back of his throat, and he abandons the dance floor to slip out the club's back door. Steve doesn't want him. Of course Steve doesn't want him. In what universe did he think he was anywhere near deserving of happiness with Steve?

Several deep breaths doesn't mitigate the suffocating sensation. He's drowning in his own want, but as long as Steve's happy...

The door bangs open behind him. Part of him hopes it's Steve, that somehow Steve knew and followed. It's not. Clint stands nearby with hands planted on hips, all trace of the bumbling clown gone from his posture and stance.

“What are you doing, Barnes?”

“Getting some fresh air.”

“Not what I meant.”

He knows what Clint meant but is being deliberately obtuse. “I don't know,” he drawls, “why don't you speak normal English 'stead of spy-speak.”

“Stop being a fucking martyr. Go in there and tell him how you feel.”

“If he wanted that, he woulda said something by now.”

“Oh please,” he snaps. “You two are killing me here. He's too terrified you can't consent to say anything, and you're too terrified of ruining your friendship. I didn't take you for a coward, Barnes.”

“Says the guy who's too afraid of commitment that he keeps running away from his family on spy missions, leaving his wife and kids to pay the consequences when he gets his ass dead.”

The jibe hits below the belt. He knows it the instant it leaves his mouth.

Clint flinches, but any hurt that may have been expressed is quickly hidden behind a cool mask.

“Shit,” curses Bucky. “I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. You're just trying to help.”

“Guess it's a good thing we're not friends, then. You know, considering my inability to commit.” Clint disappears inside long before Bucky can attempt dislodging foot from mouth again.

Several minutes later, he finally decides the best way to apologize is to follow Clint's advice, so he heads back in and starts looking for Steve. Maybe by the time he finds the guy, he can figure out what to say that doesn't sound like incoherent babbling.

He doesn't find Steve. Not until he enters the bathroom and catches his prey exiting a stall just ahead of the Nepalese guy. Color rides high on Steve's cheeks, and Bucky instantly knows the worst.

He panics.

“Buck?”

The sliver of opportunity in which he may have been able to be with the man of his dreams slams shut. Bucky doesn't know how to handle that feeling, so he stammers an apology (as if he did anything wrong by catching them having sex) and hurries out the way he came.

Steve catches him in the parking lot, grabs his wrist, and uses it to spin him around so he faces Steve, whose eyes are huge and uncertain.

Having hands laid on him while he feels off-balance isn't pleasant, so he twists his wrist to free himself and backs away. His path is eventually impeded when he backs into Steve's SUV.

“Bucky, what's wrong? Did someone hurt you? Are you okay?”

“Y-yeah. F-fine.”

“Bullshit. You're not fine. Why won't you talk to me?”

So he blurts the first thing that comes to mind. “Did you use a rubber? You gotta use a rubber if you're gonna have casual sex with strangers. Doesn't matter if you got the serum. You gotta have safe sex.”

“Buck...” Steve comes closer.

Bucky shrinks back against the SUV, both hands raising in defense of himself and eyes squeezing closed. For a second, he thinks Steve's gonna hit him. “Please, don't.”

“Hey. Hey, it's okay. I'm not gonna come any closer.”

He peeks from a cracked eyelid, and indeed, Steve has backed off a couple of paces, allowing some of the tension to drain from Bucky's body. “You s-smell like him,” he stammers in an effort to wipe away the naked hurt in Steve's expression. “I don't-- Ah, Hell, Stevie, I thought once you got over Sharon, you might want me, that we might be something special, but I just want you to be happy.”

Steve looks like he's been drenched in a bucket of ice water.

Seconds tick by.

Steve breaks the crackle in the atmosphere by saying, “Back up,” then asking, “what did you say?”

“I just want you to be happy.”

“Not that part. Buck, we are something special.”

“I know, but--” He's not sure how to finish and winds up losing his words.

“Bucky--”

He blurts without preamble, “I've loved you since we were kids, Stevie, but men couldn't go with men back then. Didn't wanna expose you to the type of filth that was in my mind and risk putting you in danger with the church, but then I wake up and start seeing Kit and find out it's not illegal any more--”

“I didn't have sex with that guy in the bathroom.”

“I saw you, Stevie.”

Steve repeats himself with more emphasis and continues, “I was going to but couldn't. I thought about you, about how I'd hate myself in the morning because it wasn't you in there with me.”

He opens and closes his mouth like a fish gasping for breath. “But--”

“You think I don't know how special we are? Been wanting to kiss you since I was thirteen and I realized boys kissed the people they love. Truth is, Buck, I been wanting you as long as I can remember, but the time we lived in... I didn't wanna have to hide you back then.”

“What about Sharon.”

“Sharon is a lovely woman, and any man would be honored to have her on his arm. We were attracted to each other. We tried to make it work, but we're both going different places in our lives. I love Sharon. Part of me will always love Sharon, but she's not the one I want beside me the rest of my life.”

“You mourned so hard when your relationship ended.”

“Wouldn't anybody when they realize a significant relationship is ending? But I wasn't just mourning Sharon, sugar. Knowing whether or not I should say anything to you about how I feel was tearing me up inside. God knows I would sooner cut off my own dick than come onto you if you're not ready.”

“I'm ready. Fuck, I'm so ready, Stevie.”

“Can I kiss you? I really wanna kiss you right now.”

Bucky nods, but a nod isn't gonna cut it with Saint Rogers, so he breathes, “Yeah.”

Next thing he knows, Stevie's warm, soft mouth is against his, and he stares in dumb silence at the man he's been pining over for what seems like most of his life, and Steve's kinda looking at him like he hung the moon and the stars, and Bucky's just not sure what to do with himself besides hook his fingers in the other man's belt loops to pull him closer.

“Is this real?” he asks with a stuttering breath.

“Real as my ma's apple pie.”

Giddiness replaces his earlier emotions, and he wraps the front of Steve's shirt in his metal fist to give himself the leverage to yank the other man down into another kiss. This one's equally tender, equally hesitant, and he finds his arm creeping around Steve's neck to prevent them from being separated. Warmth floods in where the earlier emotions existed.

Somewhere behind them, someone catcalls.

He does not want to tear his lips away from Steve's to find out who.

“'Bout time you two got your heads outta your asses.” Of course it's Sam Wilson.

Steve groans. He brushes his nose against Bucky's cheek and holds them close to each other for several heartbeats before easing back. Reluctantly.

“Sam.”

“No. Let me bask in this moment,” Sam continues, “'cause there's this phrase I been wanting to use for a while now. Can't think of what it is right off the bat. It'll come to me.” A few seconds of silence pass. “Oh. Right. I told you so.”

Steve huffs, his forehead resting against Bucky's.

“We dancing and drinking, or are you two ready to go back and make a love nest?”

Bucky answers, “Drinking and dancing. You got any idea how long I've been waiting to get this guy on the dance floor, Sammy?”

“It's Captain America to you.”

Bucky glares over Steve's shoulder. “You're a sh--” He finds his retort muffled by Steve's palm, and by the time he wrestles away from the contact, he can't suppress a full body shudder. “Please tell me you washed your hands after handling that other guy.”

“What other guy?” asks Sam.

“None of your goddamned business, Bird Brains!”

“Steve, your boyfriend needs to--”

Steve, bless him, wraps a thick forearm around Bucky's waist and glides them past Sam and toward the club. “We're drinking and dancing, Sam. Let's go!”

The music is equally loud. The dancing is equally raunchy, and this time, Bucky presses himself in close to Steve's body when the Nepalese guy from earlier attempts to grind himself back up against Captain Hot Ass. He slides his arms around his man's waist, presses his crotch into the curve of Steve's ass, and allows Steve to ride low on his thigh.

Nepalese guy huffs and moves around front, prompting Steve to drape an arm over the guy's shoulder so that Steve's sandwiched between Bucky and the Nepalese guy.

Bucky can't help the growl low in his throat, and his wandering hands smooth down Steve's washboard abs and insinuate themselves between Nepalese Guy's crotch and Steve's dick. He blinks and feels heat rush through his body upon realizing he's got his hands on Steve's dick, and that does nothing to ease the raging boner he's developing.

Eventually, Steve loses interest in being the juicy meat between their rye bread and changes things up, placing Bucky in the middle. Bucky turns and presses the length of his body against Steve's and feels much less jealous now that Nepalese Guy is grinding up against his ass instead of Rogers' considerable package. He knows; he's had his hands all over it now.

Nepalese Guy finally takes the hint and wanders off to find greener pastures, allowing Bucky to press himself in close against Steve so their bodies are flush. And the way his man's looking at him sends zings of pleasure rushing into his pelvis. He meets the intensity of Rogers' blue gaze, pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, and slips an arm up around Steve's neck.

“Why are we idiots?” Steve murmurs against his ear, the sound nearly drowned in the thump of heavy bass. “Coulda been putting my hands on you for ages if I'd known. Fuck, I can only imagine what you felt when I came outta that stall with that guy.”

“Forget about it. Just hold me.”

He turns his face up, glides his nose alongside Steve's, and reaches up with both hands to bury fingers in Steve's hair, pulling it free from its artful bun, to bring his man's mouth to his. Now that he knows he's allowed, he can't stop putting his lips all over Steve Rogers.

They share breath, lips ghosting and sliding away before Bucky presses up into the kiss, and shit-pickles he's ruined for anyone else's mouth. The plush softness of Steve's lips is Heaven. The warmth of his mouth, he's convinced, will finally thaw him after decades of being frozen. The wet. The heat. The intimacy of pressing his tongue past Steve's lips. He whimpers into the kiss.

“Let's get outta here,” he says while biting gently at Steve's earlobe.

Steve eases back, hands cupped around Bucky's hips, and looks down at him, searchingly. “You sure you don't wanna take it slow?”

“I mean, unless you do.” Confidence losing ground, he tucks a lock of his own hair behind his ear and looks anywhere but at Steve's face.

“Hey, no.” Strong fingers catch his chin and prevent him from looking away.

Rather than continuing the conversation in a crowded dance club, Steve laces their fingers together and tugs Bucky out the back door. Several people are outside catching some air and smoking, so they move farther away to have some semblance of privacy.

“I know you've been having trouble with being too suggestible, so we can't risk getting this wrong, okay? You gotta know that I'd rather cut off my own hand than hurt you, so we gotta talk about this. Is this you going along with what you think I want? Or is it you setting up the boundaries you need?”

Catching Steve's hand, Bucky presses kisses into each of his fingertips to give himself time to settle into the conversation, at which point, he says, “Been waiting all my life for you. Unless you got some rule about not screwing on the first date, which I see you don't, then...” His lips cocked up in a smile.

“What are you talking about? I'm a respectable fella,” exclaims Steve, one hand going to his heart in mock outrage. Said outrage doesn't last, though, as he tucks fingers beneath Bucky's chin and pulls him into another scintillating kiss.

“Respectable as an upside down cross in a cathedral,” he murmurs against Steve's lips. 

In a rush, they say their goodbyes and pile into the SUV for the trip back to Avengers Academy, and if Buck's having a hard time stopping himself from copping a feel of Steve's thigh, who can blame him? Steve's thighs are things to be worshiped. It's not as though his man minds, not with the way Rogers allows his thighs to fall open, granting Bucky the room to slip his fingers between them.

Occasionally, Bucky's fingers slide a little higher than would be considered proper, allowing his thumb to brush against the apex of his man's groin, and eventually, that groin fills with want. Knowing he can affect Steve so easily makes him smirk. It makes him smirk and return to that region in order to cup his palm between his man's legs.

Steve's breathing stutters. Fingers flex against the steering wheel, and after a moment of such torment, the guy's hand slides down atop Bucky's to press the tormenting palm more tightly against his arousal.

Bucky leaves his hand there for the rest of the drive home, just gently holding his man's cock.

*

Passion slows down once they reach Bucky's bedroom. It's not that he doesn't want to; he does. Badly. It's that he suddenly remembers his body isn't much to look at, so when Steve rucks his shirt up, his hands stutter to a halt. Knowing he's more or less disfigured is one thing. Showing Steve is something entirely different, despite how badly he's wanted this moment since he knew his cock could get hard.

“Are you okay? Do you need to stop? Or slow down?” A warm palm rises to cradle Bucky's cheek.

“Just... It's stupid. I been undressed in front of you before. You know what to expect about my body, but it's different. Now. Knowing you're gonna put your hands on me. Gotta work up my confidence.”

“Hey, no.” That broad palm slides onto his back, cups his shoulder, and pulls him closer. “Buck, you gotta know how attractive you are. You just gotta.”

He shakes his head. “I was. Before Hydra. Before Russia. Then they marked me up.”

“Doesn't matter. You feel this?” Steve takes Bucky's palm and cups it over his erection. “This has got so much more to do with you being you than with what your body looks like.”

Bucky whimpers low in his throat and steps closer, presses himself up against the wall of muscle that is Steve Rogers, and seeks the other man's mouth, needy for some sort of contact. He's not left wanting, and his man draws him closer to press the lengths of their bodies together where their erections pulse hotly from the friction.

He doesn't protest at first when Steve turns him, when Steve cups his chin and asks without words for Bucky to lift his gaze from the floor. He does only to find them reflected back at him from his full length mirror. Hiding isn't an option. Not with Steve's mouth working hungrily at his neck, sucking blush-colored bruises into his skin that fade almost immediately.

Strong palms skim down to Bucky's hips, and Steve gently, oh so gently, pushes both beneath his Gollum t-shirt. The shirt comes up and off before he can get himself worked up about it, and he meets the reflection of Steve's gaze in the mirror. There's a hunger in his man's eyes he hasn't seen before, a look that could scorch stone, and Bucky rolls his body to press himself into those caressing hands.

“Gorgeous,” Steve rumbles into Bucky's neck. “You're gorgeous.”

Denial perches on his tongue. All he sees is the mess of scar tissue at his shoulder, the small pin-prick scars of buckshot that ravaged his tissue. He sees puckered flesh from a fifty caliber bullet that nearly spelled the end of him. He sees the hairless chest and stomach from where repeated cryo-freezes burned off his body hair. He sees the stark reality of a life lived in war.

But then Steve lifts Bucky's arm, drapes Bucky's forearm back and around Steve's neck, and buries his face in Bucky's armpit. There's no hair there to catch body odor, but he's still shocked. He's even more shocked when Steve's tongue laves the hammer-shaped brand hidden there, tasting salt and sweat.

It has the opposite affect he figured. Rather than being repulsed, Steve moans like a starving man partaking in his first steak. “Fuck, I love the taste of your sweat.”

“Shit-pickles,” Bucky breathes when a flare of pleasures makes his cock throb wantonly.

So Steve does it again, rakes his tongue in Bucky's armpit and pauses to suck a bruise there.

Bucky's hips pulse out of some ancient desire to have friction around his cock. Coarse hair from his man's beard roughs his skin deliciously, and he doesn't want it to stop. Wants his man to leave his whole body tender with beard burn, tender and aching for something more fulfilling.

He allows his head to drop back against Steve's shoulder while Steve opens Bucky's belt and unfastens his pants. Thank fuck. If he doesn't get out of his pants soon, his cock's gonna go into hiding.

“Can I?” the other man asks.

“Yes. Fuck yes.”

Next thing he knows, his jeans and boxer briefs are on the floor around his ankles, and his cock is so fucking hard it stands erect against his stomach.

“God, look at you. Best thing I've ever fucking seen.”

“You're blind as a bat.” 

“Not anymore. Serum fixed that ages ago.” 

That fucking smirk Steve's wearing will be the death of him.

“Even though I'm basically hairless? Like a naked-fucking-mole rat?”

Despite his best efforts, Steve breaks into peels of laughter that he does his best to muffle against Bucky's shoulder blade. “Yeah, Buck. Even though you're naked like a mole rat. Come on. People pay thousands of dollars to get their body hair permanently removed with lasers.”

“Name the last time somebody said 'oh I want that hairless body.' Fucking body hair makes a man, Stevie. Everybody wants their men with a hairy chest and ass crack. Shows how virile he is.”

“Makes it much more comfortable to do this.”

Bucky opens his mouth to ask what, but the only thing that comes out is a sharp gasp when Steve sinks to his knees, spreads Bucky's cheeks, and rolls his tongue in circles around the tight furl of his anus. Losing his balance is the least embarrassing thing he can do, and anyway, he catches himself against the mirror before he can hit the floor. That shouldn't feel so fucking good. Steve shouldn't be on his knees doing that, but he'll be damned if he can get a coherent word out to deter the attention.

Instead, he moans and presses the hot length of his body against the mirror. The contrast in temperature between his blood-hot cock and the cool glass drives him a little bit crazy, and he winds up widening his stance, opening his legs to give Steve more room to work. Then his man's tongue press into the clutch of his hole, and it's all he can do to fog the mirror with his breath.

“Fuck,” he gasps. “Fuck, what're you doing to my legs, Rogers?”

“Making you weak at the knees?”

He barely understands Steve. Why? Because Steve's voice is muffled from having his face buried between Bucky's ass cheeks, and oh fuck, that thought is enough to leave streaks of pre-come smearing across the mirror. The friction and chill feels fucking amazing, so he does it again. And that beard. That beard against the most sensitive area of his body?

He snakes a hand around his hip and clenches fingers in Steve's hair to keep him from pulling away just yet. That wicked tongue darts into him again, leaving behind a sloppy sensation of wetness and tenderness that damn near drops his legs from beneath him.

“You get a fucking condom, Rogers, or so help me, I will sit on a cucumber instead.” He recognizes his mouth is opening and closing and words are spilling out, but whatever he says has the desired result in that Steve fishes a condom and packet of lube from his jeans.

Maybe they should slow down. Maybe they should take it to the bed. Not very romantic to have their first time pressed up against a mirror, but Bucky figures fuck that. Moving to the bed would require actually moving, and that is not something he's prepared to do when he's so turned on a stiff breeze could make him come like it's his first time.

“Are you sure?”

“Rogers, shut the fuck up and finger my ass.”

Wet fingers press into his body, and he widens his stance, presses his hips toward Steve and rests his forehead against the mirror, which is a mess of condensation from his panting breaths. The silky glide of the fingers is unlike anything he's ever experienced before. Which isn't to say he hasn't been fucked before; he has. Even before Hydra got hold of him, but they hadn't had anything like lube before.

So when the fingers find his prostate and apply pressure, he damn near howls at the moon, is forced to bite his lip to somehow stifle the sounds his body wants to make in response. 

Only Steve is having none of that. His man presses into Bucky's back and murmurs into his ear. “Let me hear you, Buck. I wanna hear how good I'm making you feel.”

Well there goes his composure right out the window. He makes what he would consider an undignified whimpering noise when Steve goes back to pressing against his prostate. The pressure, the tension building in his loins, they make his legs shake.

And that's before he hears the jingle of Steve's built. It's before his best guy rids himself of the final layer separating them. It's before the scalding length of Steve's dick is cradled between Bucky's spread cheeks and the head ghosts across his hole. That makes him sag into the strong arm around him.

Steve lets him go long enough to roll on a condom but is right there again, beard rough between Bucky's shoulder blades, eyes intense blue as they gaze at each other through the mirror.

“One more time, Buck. You with me? Can I fuck you?”

Something snarky rests on the tip of Bucky's tongue, but he recognizes this is no place for snark. Steve's being gentle. He's being tender. He's just ensuring that Bucky isn't zoned out and going along with things because he doesn't know how to say no.

“Yes, Stevie. Please.”

“Bend over a little.”

He does, and the tip of Steve's cock presses against his hole. Gentle pressure eases the head inside, and Bucky can't deny the burn, the sting of flesh being stretched beyond capacity, but the pain isn't even a blip on the scale of his pain tolerance, and once the head's in, the muscles closes around the shaft, clutching Steve inside his body. Before he knows it, the coarse hair at Steve's groin tickles his ass.

Bucky breathes out. He lifts his head to look at Steve's reflection, and the guy's eyes look luminous, like he's seeing the Sistine Chapel, like he's caressing the erotic sculptures decorating the Khajuraho temples in India. A thick forearm encircles Bucky's waist, the palm flattening over his heart.

“You're here,” Steve breathes. “You're with me.”

“Always,” he replies, one hand layering over Steve's.

“Don't leave me again.”

“Never.”

Steve hides his face against Bucky's shoulder. When he lifts again, his eyes are wet with tears, and he gently fucks into Bucky's body, every movement measured and tender.

All Bucky can do is stretch his neck up, offering his lips, which Steve takes in a kiss that's more breath than tongue. It's like being washed clean. Maybe he should be afraid. Maybe he should be traumatized by the way Hydra used him, but he's not. He gives himself permission to ignore his fragmented memories of that time and lives in the moment with Steve.

The pressure of containing Steve, the silken glide of their bodies pulling apart and coming together, leaves him panting. He braces himself with one hand against the mirror and accepts his lover into his body, accepts the heat and the friction, the tenderness, and the soft grind every time Steve's pelvis impacts against his ass. He bites his bottom lip and reaches between his legs to cup the heavy weight of his own arousal.

It's a tease, Steve fucking into him only to withdraw. The pressure is there and then gone, his body left gaping and empty without the girth of Steve's cock inside him, and how amazing is that? That Steve can physically change his body and leave what was once tight loose and well-used.

But they can't stave off their need forever, and Steve clutches a hand atop Bucky's metal shoulder to give himself the leverage to pump faster, deeper, harder.

Bucky sags against the mirror, fists his own cock, and starts jerking it in counterpoint to Steve's thrusts.

“Slow down a little,” he moans, eager to savor it whenever the cockhead presses right into his prostate. “Yeah,” he pants. “Yeah, just like that. Sweetheart.”

One hand on his shoulder, the other on his hip, Steve finds the right pace, pausing with every thrust in to grind himself against Bucky's prostate, mouth pressed into the nape of Bucky's neck. Steve sweeps chestnut hair aside and laves across the sickle branding him there, sucks on it.

And Bucky can feel the tension mounting, can feel the warmth and tightness of his loins as his balls draw closer to his body. He gasps. His hand picks up pace.

“Fuck. Now you can go as fast as you want,” he huffs when he feels the peak coming.

When he finally orgasms, his whole body goes tense. His toes curl into the carpet, and he doesn't give one single damn about the mirror's cleanliness, just looses ropes of semen that splatter the glass and glide downward. Shivers work through his body, but he doesn't stop rocking into Steve.

Steve pounds him hard and fast until his own orgasm causes his cock to gently pulse inside Bucky's ass as he fills the condom. Then, exhausted, they both sag, Bucky enjoying the weight of Steve's body against him while Steve's breaths exhale into his sweat-damp hair. 

After, Steve cleans him up with a damp cloth, and they both collapse into Bucky's bed, eager to hold each other close. His body is pleasantly exhausted. Aftershocks still make him shiver. He drapes a leg over his man's hip and enjoys the quiet.

They don't speak. There's no reason to. Somehow words feel profane in the sanctity of their tabernacle. Love is expressed better in actions than in words, and he doesn't doubt in those moments that Steve loves him and that he loves Steve.

*

Something needs to die.

Buck clings to the vestiges of his dream. In his dream, Steve's rocking into him, splitting his ass in twain with the thick shaft of his cock, and Bucky wants nothing more than to grind his hips into the mattress beneath him. So he does. Because he's allowed to have nice things.

Then the something that needs to die is back and shaking his shoulder, and no, no, no, no, no! He doesn't want to pull himself off Steve's cock.

Eventually, he cracks an eye open only to be confronted with the fact that Steve's the one forcing him off Steve's cock, his man sitting on the edge of the bed, hair already brushed out and pulled into a knot at the nape of his neck and eyes bright and alert.

“Leave me alone, you prick. I was just about to come on your dick.” His voice is muffled by the pillow he buries his face in.

Steve laughs. The asshole. “Time to get up. Don't want to be late for your first day of classes.”

That brings his face back out of the pillow. “What?”

“Remember last night?”

“What about last night?”

They'd gone out to dinner and caught a movie. Then, they'd gone home, had a long soak in Steve's sinfully luxurious bath, and made love. In bed for a change. That's the way their relationship has been for the past two weeks since first getting together.

Color drains from Bucky's face. “Oh shit.” Because he vaguely remembers agreeing to teach urban warfare while in the midst of a mind-blowing orgasm. He narrows his eyes and pins Steve with what Sam refers to as his Murder Eyes. “You are a manipulative twat.”

“You can come on my dick tonight, or we can change it up some so's I come on yours, but right now, we don't want to be late for classes.”

“I take it back.”

“Can't.”

“Contracts made under duress aren't binding.”

But he doesn't hit Steve when his man sits him up and moves around the apartment gathering articles of clothing. He's just awake enough to hold up his feet when prompted while Steve, crouching by the bed, slips a pair of briefs onto him along with a pair of Under Armor tights. He even stands when prompted and holds his arms aloft for Steve to put a shirt on him.

“There. You're at least dressed. Come on. Breakfast in the common room with the rest of the staff before we get the kids started for the day.”

“My hair.”

“Come on. You're a hundred and one years old. I think you can--”

“I'm not teaching urban warfare unless you get your ridiculous ass over here and brush my hair for me.” He stifles a yawn against the back of his hand and runs fingers through the rat's nest on his head, evidence of last night's bedroom Olympics. “Of course if you'd rather stay here, I could wake up properly with my lips around your dick.”

Harrumphing, Steve grabs a hairbrush. At some point, Bucky stole Steve's, which is much nicer than his own. He sits and presents himself to his man, who runs a brush through his hair and quickly twists it into a topknot to keep it out of his face. Only then does Bucky agree to stand up, and even afterward, he refuses to take two steps until he's puckered up and Steve has pressed a proper good morning kiss against his mouth.

They stop on the way to the front door for Steve to give him a bagged lunch and a thermos of coffee before making their way across the compound to the main building. And if he pouts the entire way, well, Steve should've known better than to manipulate him into a teaching position through sex.

He has no idea what to expect when he steps into his classroom for the first time. What he finds is an open warehouse space containing a mock-up of a city street and surrounding buildings. A half dozen kids are gathered at the head of the room where a chair and table are situated. Clint, he supposes, has spread various materials across the table, and everyone glances up from looking over a holographic map when he enters.

Something like relief paints Clint's face, and he hurries over to shove a tablet into Bucky's hands. “Thank God. It's easy-peasy. You'll get the hang of it in no time. Class, introduce yourselves.”

Six teens line up according to size and rattle off their names and call signs: Sooraya Qadir (Dust), Nezhno Abidemi (Gentle), Karolina Dean (L.S.D.), Rayshaun Lucas (Patriot), Anya Corazon (Spider-Girl), and Molly Hayes, who doesn't have a call sign yet.

Bucky gets to Molly Hayes and does a double-take. The kid's tiny. Probably isn't anything more than thirteen at the oldest and barely comes up to his sternum. Skepticism is clear on his expression, he's sure, when he turns back to look at Clint, but Clint is already gone, having dusted outta the room like a fucking tornado to get away from the rug rats.

“So... Questions?”

“Are you really the Winter Soldier?”

“Any questions that aren't about the Winter Soldier?”

Proverbial crickets chirp.

“Better get to work on your calisthenics then. First rule of working out is to stretch ahead of time.” He drops into a chair by the table and props his heels on top, expecting the kids to go about their usual business. He isn't expecting Molly and Karolina to flop on the ground and start painting their nails, and he isn't expecting Sooraya to take herself off to a quiet corner where she's separate from the others. Nezhno, meanwhile, disappears into the rafters where he settles, Lotus-style, to pray? Meditate? 

Really, he's prepared to ignore them and let them do their own thing for the ninety minute period. After all, what the fuck does he know about teaching kids? Only this is something Steve has asked him to do. As much as he hates having young lives to mold, he hates the idea of letting Steve down worse.

So Bucky pops an eye open instead of continuing his dream from the night before.

He rolls up the sleeves of his sweater, exposing the metal metal arm T'Challa made for him, and plants himself in front of them like the sergeant he used to be.

“Attention!”

Several kids snap with tension. Rayshaun is clearly paying the most attention. Bucky must remember to bring a sheet of gold star stickers and wallpaper that kid with them. Karolina and Molly don't even look up from their mani-pedi session, but he can tell from the tension around Karolina's mouth that she doesn't want to be here. He makes a mental note to ask Steve about that.

“This belongs to me now,” he says while swiping up their bottles of nail polish. “Get your asses in line, or I'll put you in line myself.”

“Mr. Barnes,” Molly whines.

“That's Sergeant Barnes to you.”

Once he has them all at attention, he goes down the line testing their reflexes and hand to hand skills one at a time. Nezhno is like punching a brick wall, but he's slower than Christmas. Sooraya is competent but insecure and hindered by the traditional chador covering her wide trousers and long tunic. Rayshaun lacks the proper balance to take on heavier opponents. 

Karolina screeches when he attacks only to emit some sort of rainbow light show. It distracts him well enough, and he finds he can't punch his way through the shield. Interesting. Anya is the most proficient. Fighting her is like fighting that kid back in Leipzig. She's fast and agile.

He doesn't want to hit Molly.

“What are you even doing here, kid?”

She shrugs. “Fucking ask fucking James Rhodes.”

“The mouth on you.”

“Suck my sac.” She grabs her crotch.

Bucky raises a brow.

“You're, what? Twelve?”

“Thirteen.”

“What's a thirteen year old doing training to be an Avenger? Serious question.”

Rather than responding, Molly grabs the chair from the table and snaps it in half.

Oh.

That's why she's in training to be an Avenger.

Once he has a pretty good idea of their base line skills, they spend the rest of class running a simulation that involves the kids breaking into a building to diffuse a hostage situation. All the hostages die. The bad guys get away, and Karolina and Rayshaun die tragic deaths.

Bucky facepalms.

The only thing keeping him going throughout the rest of his day is knowing he gets to go home at five (apparently teaching future Avengers and the various meetings necessary to coordinate their teaching schedules is a nine to five job now) and talk Steve into fucking him until he feels like a jellyfish. Which is why, when a call comes in from local authorities asking for back-up, he grabs the biggest gun he can find and suits up in his old tactical gear.

“Bucky...”

“Shut up and get in the van, Steve.”

“You don't have to--”

“Get in the goddamn van so we can go save the goddamn town, so that I can finally have your goddamn dick in my ass the way I've been craving since I woke up this goddamn morning.”

Clint, who's just stuck his head inside the van, owl-blinks. “Did I come at the wrong time?”

“Sorry,” Steve hurries to say. “Sorry, Clint. He gets like this sometimes.”

“You'd be irritable too if your dick had been half-hard all damn day because your boyfriend's too goddamn responsible to be ten minutes late to class.”

“That sounds like a personal problem, buddy.”

“It's everybody's problem now.”

Moments later, his face and ears redder than a beet, Steve pulls the van out of the facility's parking lot, and they make their way into town where local law enforcement briefs them on the situation. A drone dropped some sort of device near City Hall that opened and spewed an unknown chemical throughout the environment. Upon breathing in the chemical, the citizens started attacking each other.

Steve orders face masks. Their main goal is to shut down the device, which is still leaking its payload, and contain the violence with as few casualties as possible. He sends Clint scrambling to the top of City Hall to have a bird's eye view of the area and leaves Bucky and him to ground maneuvers.

Disabling without killing turns out to be a lot more difficult than the alternative. Humans are fragile, and movies are wrong. Hitting someone hard enough to knock them out also runs the risk of fracturing the skull or causing brain damage, so Bucky must be extra cautious, especially given his strength and the extra payload harnessed by his mechanical appendage.

He does his best to break up the fighting while Steve works his way toward the device, hauling people off each other and locking them in various rooms or binding them with whatever he can get his hands on, and things are fine. Things are hunky dory. Just another day on the job. Then he hears a gunshot followed by Steve crying out.

All sorts of terrifying scenarios run through his head in the ten seconds it takes to dispatch the guy he's been wrestling with. Oops. Those broken legs are gonna smart in the morning, but it deters the guy from going after anyone else and gives Bucky the time to break away from the fighting to get to Steve.

He swings his rifle onto his shoulder and sites down the scope, finding Steve wrestling with some ass-wipe brandishing a gun. Goddamn America and their goddamn liberal gun laws where any idiot can get their hands on a weapon and play like they're John-fucking-Wayne without any weapons training.

Bucky briefly gets caught in a trance, though, watching his man deal with the goon. Because that black suit over his physique? All that wild, golden hair coming free of its tie? That beard darkening the baby softness of Steve's face? It's really working for Bucky, and he'll die before he admits to getting a chub in the middle of combat off his boyfriend's darkly devastating looks.

Steve's a cuttlefish. Bucky is his unsuspecting prey.

Right. Gun. John-fucking-Wayne. Focus, Barnes!

“Steve, down!”

Steve drops.

Bucky takes the shot.

John-fucking-Wayne goes down like a sack of potatoes, parts of his kneecap scattered around the pavement. It buys Steve the time necessary to wrestle the guy's arms behind his back to tie them off with a zip-tie, at which point, Saint Rogers removes his own belt to make a tourniquet.

By the time Bucky gets there, the guy's trussed up like a hog, and Bucky puts his hands all over Rogers looking for gunshot wounds. His heart just won't stop pounding until he's assured himself his boyfriend's unharmed. His boyfriend isn't unharmed. He finds a patch of blood soaking the thigh of Steve's black Nomad suit and applies pressure.

“Just a flesh wound, Buck. We gotta get to that device and shut it down.”

Grumbling, Bucky uses the strap of his rifle to tie around Steve's leg. Only then does he consent to get his ass off the ground and take a look at the situation. Clint's voice buzzes in his ear, so he asks Hawkeye to cover him while he makes a run for the device.

He leaves a trail of bodies in his wake. He's pretty sure they're all still alive despite how thick the fighting gets the nearer he comes to the device. Sweat pours down his face. Breathing behind the mask is pretty irritating, so it's possible he's lost control of his own restraint and one or two aren't above snakes anymore. It's a thought he will explore once the badness is over and everyone is safe.

Trouble is the device looks like it's rigged with explosives. A vial of half-spent green liquid rests inside the main chamber and is slowly being released into the atmosphere, but he's worried that attempts to remove the liquid will trigger the detonation. If only Dernier were around.

“What's it look like, Buck?” Steve asks.

Bucky startles. He didn't notice Steve following him and turns an unhappy grimace in his boyfriend's direction. “Go away.”

“What?”

“It's rigged to explode. No sense in both of us being caught in the blast zone if things go bad.”

“I am not leaving you here to be exploded!”

“Guys,” Clint barks into their communication devices, “now would be a good time to call Tony.”

They both turn in Clint's direction and say, “No,” simultaneously.

“You two know any other bomb experts?”

Proverbial crickets chirp.

“If you wanna get home in time to get Steve's dick up your ass, you'll call Tony.”

“What's his number again? One-eight-hundred-douche-ballon?”

“Bucky...”

“Shut up, Rogers. I can live with him blowing my arm off. Hurt like fuck, but it's the least I deserved for murdering his parents. I can even live with him wanting to murder me. Again. Murdered parents. But he broke your face, sweetheart. He took your shield away. He made you choose between Captain America and me. That's straight up bullshit.”

“I didn't tell him about his parents--”

“So-fucking-what? The guy's an antagonistic twerp to you. Told you everything special about you came outta a bottle--”

“I didn't realize he didn't know!” Clint cries from atop his perch.

“--goes outta his way to be a smart-mouthed shit-pickle, unleashes a robot army bent on destroying the world and lets you take the blame for the fall out. Douche balloon is the least of the names I wanna use in reference to Tony-fucking-Stark.”

“Anything else you'd like to add to my list of sins?” Stark suddenly says over their communication devices, and Steve jumps at the interruption.

“Yeah, while we're at it--” Whatever else Bucky has to say is muffled against Steve's hand.

In the end, defusing the bomb is a pain in the ass, and Bucky has to sit back and watch Saint Steve put his hands inside that machine to snip the appropriate wires. Bucky argues that he should be the one to do it because his metal arm is practically indestructible, but every time he opens his mouth, Stark and him get into a shouting match, so Steve removes Bucky's communication device and takes over.

It's late evening by the time they limp back to the compound. Rather than getting fucked by his boyfriend, he sacrifices his own libido to drag Steve to the infirmary where Dr. Cho goes about digging the bullet out. Normally, they'd just leave it. Removing the bullet causes more damage than not, but Steve's immune system will just expel it anyway, and the wound will seal faster once it's gone.

He holds Steve's hand while his man grimaces through the procedure, and once the bullet clangs into a pan and Helen stitches and bandages the wound, they're dismissed back to their apartment.

Doting on Steve becomes Bucky's new thing once they arrive. He carefully strips Steve, who smiles down at him with a fond look while Bucky's removing his man's boots. Then, he puts a silicone sleeve on his man's leg to keep the bandage dry, and gets them both into the shower where Steve groans into the hot gush of water, tilting his head back to allow rivulets to run across his neck and down the muscular grooves of his back.

Bucky can't help himself and presses into Steve's body, leaving a kiss between his man's shoulder blades. “I heard that gunshot and thought you were dead, boo.”

A callused palm settles on the forearm Buck has wrapped around the other man's waist. “Takes a lot more than a gunshot to kill me these days.”

Shuddering breaths fan against his man's back as the anxiety works through him. He doesn't realize he's shivering until Steve turns in his arms and pulls him close.

“You cold, sugar?”

“No, just...” He's not sure how to say it. “First time back in action after Hydra.”

“What do you need?”

He props his chin against Steve's chest and gazes up at his man. “This.”

So Steve, he leans down, ghosts their mouths together, and gathers him into his arms until they're pressed flush together. It feels amazing, all that bare skin against his, that talented tongue darting past his lips to taste the haven of his mouth.

He sucks on Steve's tongue and buries his fingers into his man's hair to keep them from being separated, and it's mere moments before his cock takes interest, fattening up between his legs. Holding back a broken sound of want isn't possible. It catches in his throat as he rocks his pelvis against Steve's looking for friction.

Steve grasps the backs of his thighs, lifts him, and turns to press him against the tiled wall, fitting his own hips between Bucky's spread legs. His man's cock is already fat and erect and nestles between his spread cheeks, ghosting against his hole, and that's enough to make pre-come bead in the slit of his own, which is pressed delightfully between their bellies.

“You're so needy, sugar,” Steve growls from where he's sucking bruises onto Bucky's throat.

“Gotta have you. Can't imagine doing without you.”

Thick fingers trace around his entrance and catch on the rim, and Bucky sinks his teeth into the muscle laying atop Steve's shoulder hard enough to leave the impression of his bite. It turns purple, and Bucky laves the area in apology for being so rough, not that his man seems to mind, not when he's already got two fingers working just inside Bucky's ass.

“Come on. Get inside me. Need you.”

“Hey, slow down, pal. I wanna take my time with you.”

“Later.”

“Let's finish our shower. Then I'll lay you out and do this properly, but I'm not fucking you dry, sugar.”

“Why not? They did.”

Steve freezes.

Bucky freezes. Then he curses himself for bringing up something like that in the middle of sex. Steve's never gonna fuck him now.

As predicted, his man eases his legs from around Steve's waist until his feet touch the tiled floor. Steve leans back, cups Bucky's face in both palms, and looks at him. Deeply. As though he can find something buried beneath Bucky's stony facade.

“Sugar--”

“I don't wanna talk about it.”

Several heartbeats pass before his many says, “I'll respect that. You don't have to talk about it with me, but sugar, if I've pressured you or done anything-- I'd cut my own dick off if I took advantage.”

He rolls his eyes so hard it makes his head hurt. “Always the self-sacrificial saint, huh?” He takes Steve's face in his hands and pulls his man close enough for another languid kiss. “Want you. Kit says I gotta work on that, talking 'bout what I want, so you're gonna be hearing that a lot. I want you. I've wanted you since you were fourteen and laying on the rooftop sketching. The sun hit you just the right way, and I was worried you were gonna get burned, but for a second, it was like a halo.

“There you were on your belly with the sun around you practically turning your skin translucent, and fuck, you were the most beautiful thing I ever laid eyes on. All I wanted was to kiss you senseless, but you know how things were back then. 

“My ma caught me kissing a fella once and damn near disowned me. Father Kilpatrick was always railing about the sins of the flesh and that part in the good book where Lot offers his daughters to be raped by the mob who's lusting after the male angels. Didn't wanna bring you down to Hell with me.”

That's about the most words he's ever strung together at one time since World War II, and he's not entirely sure where it came from, only knows it's the truth, only knows his shoulders feel lighter for having said them, like a weight's been lifted after delivering his cargo.

Steve opens his mouth a couple of times to speak only to close it again, and in the end, he holds Bucky's chin and swoops down for a kiss that's all tongue and lips that leaves Bucky's toes curling against the tile.

“You aren't going to Hell, Buck.”

“Oh yeah? Tell that to the Starks.”

“I don't believe in a god who'd condemn a man to Hell for choices he wasn't in his right mind to make. Just like I don't believe in a god who'd condemn someone for loving a person regardless of what their reproductive organs are.”

“That doesn't--”

Steve hushes him by pressing the pad of his thumb against Bucky's lips. “Sugar, you'd be singing a different tune if it was me who'd been captured and tortured by Hydra.”

Okay, so Steve's got him there.

“It's different.”

“It's only different 'cause it happened to you instead of me.”

So Bucky figures out he's a goddam hypocrite, and if Steve had fallen and been turned into the Winter Soldier by Hydra, he would be doing everything in his power to absolve Steve of any guilt he carried. He's entirely Steve-centered. So sue him.

The mood's been compromised, so Bucky focuses his attention on soaping Steve. He shampoos his man's hair twice and uses the expensive conditioner Bucky buys for himself.

Steve turns around and does the same to Bucky, and once they're clean, they step out of the shower and wrap each other in fluffy towels. They don't bother with clothes and rest peacefully in their bed, allowing the adrenaline to drain away, taking comfort in each other.

Later, after they've soaked each other into their pores, Bucky turns to his man and hooks a leg over Steve's hip. He flattens a palm over his man's back, skims it down the naked flesh until it's resting comfortably in the dip at the small of Steve's back. They kiss like that, open-mouthed and hungry.

And eventually, Bucky lines up their cocks and rocks them against one another for friction. The pressure against his erection is a relief, and they take turns grinding. Their mouths trade kisses, sometimes barely touching and sharing breath and other times delving deep to satiate the longing burning beneath their skin.

He almost lost Steve today. That knowledge makes him reach for the lube. He coats his own fingers and reaches behind himself to start fingering his own hole, to start opening himself up. When he's ready, he straddles Steve, who willingly turns onto his back, and rubs the length of his man's shaft between his ass cheeks. Occasionally, the head catches on his rim and makes him gasp.

Steve breathes, “You want me to get a condom?”

“Nah. I wanna feel you come inside me this time. Make me all messy so's you're leaking outta me for the rest of the night. Remind me that I'm yours and you're mine.”

After a few moments, when teasing Steve and himself becomes less important than possessing each other, he reaches back to guide his man's cock into his body. The satisfaction is like a home coming. The stretch burns, but the burn reminds him he's alive. That they're both alive and together, and he's not gonna let anything separate them again.

Bottom lip between his teeth, he rocks himself on Steve's cock. He forces himself to keep eye contact, gazing into the deep blue of Steve's eyes. Steve grasps Bucky's hips, fucks up into him with each downward press of Bucky's body.

This isn't sex, he realizes. It's not fucking. They're making love. His heart feels full, full of Steve, full of what they feel for each other, full of the wonder of being together again even when their reunion seemed impossible.

His rhythm stutters when Steve wraps a fist around Bucky's cock. He can't decide whether to move back onto his man's erection or forward into his fist, but Steve makes the decision for him. Steve fucks into him, forcing him forward into Steve's fist, and it's overwhelming, and it's amazing, and he can't catch a full breath. There doesn't seem to be enough room in his body to contain air and Steve at once.

So he grinds himself onto his man's cock and lets go, let's Steve take him where he needs to go. It's the gentle pulses of his man's hips, forcing his cock deep and deeper still that finally does it. The blunt head grinds up against Bucky's prostate, and he shudders. He shudders as the tension finally snaps into the blinding ecstasy of orgasm.

He cries out. Ropes of come paint Steve's chest. Droplets land on his chin, and Bucky leans down to run lips and tongue over his man's chin to clean his own mess. He shares the taste with Steve when he kisses him, prompting his man to hum in appreciation.

But Steve's not done with him, not yet. Warm hands cup Bucky's shoulder blades, and Steve flips them without needing to disengage their bodies. He presses Bucky into the mattress, drapes one of Bucky's legs over his shoulder, and starts fucking him hard and fast.

At some point, Bucky's eyes roll into the back of his head, and all he can do is hang on, fingers clenched into the muscle of his man's hips to encourage him to keep going, to use Bucky the way Steve needs to use him in order to attain satisfaction.

When Steve comes, it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. His man's expression opens. His man's face relaxes. His brows scrunch together. White teeth clench on his bottom lip, and he shakes. He shakes like he's coming apart, like it takes everything inside him to ride out the climax. And when it's over, he doesn't have the strength to move, just collapses atop Bucky.

Bucky's content to remain there, palms smoothing down Steve's sweat-soaked back.

Only Steve has a different idea. Steve moves down the bed and presses Bucky's legs wide. He scoops some of the come leaking from Bucky and presses it back into him on two fingers.

“I love what my cock does to your body,” he murmurs, “the way it leaves you gaping just for me.”

A broken sound escapes him when Steve's fingers brush against his prostate.

Without warning, Steve's face disappears between his legs, and his man's tongue penetrates him alongside his fingers. It's the combination of over-stimulation from his prostate, the very act of Steve tasting his own come from inside Bucky, and the roughness of his man's beard scratching at the sensitive skin of his inner thighs that does it.

Bucky comes again, his cock leaking weak spurts of semen against his own belly, and he shouts. He shouts and buries his fingers into Steve's hair to have something to hang onto.

*

Bucky cries out. He's lying on his side, Steve snugged up against his back. The thick head of his man's cock seeks entrance inside him, but he's too damn sore to be fucked, his body reluctant to allow Steve inside him again. They've already fucked four or five times since coming home from battle.

It's not that he doesn't want it; he wants it badly, wants to feel his man joined with him as deeply as possible to feel the vitality of Steve Rogers as his man plows into him. He just can't without whimpering his discomfort, which makes the man behind him stop his forward momentum.

Steve, perfect, wonderful Steve, eases the pressure and murmurs, “Too much?”

He shakes his head. He wants it so badly he can taste it.

“No, sugar, I'm not gonna hurt you. We can do other things if you're still interested.”

He's not spoiled. He's not! It's just that Steve's never denied him anything before, and he figures it isn't too much to ask that his man fuck him through the discomfort. His body will adjust once Steve's inside, and the pleasure will outweigh the pain. And that's all that matters, getting to that white-hot realm of ecstasy where he finally feels safe and alive after nearly losing the man he loves.

“Hey, sugar, look at me.”

He rolls enough to take in Steve's face.

Steve catches the tears on his face with his thumb and licks the salt away. “Calm down, sugar.” His man's broad palm cups his cheek and pulls him into a kiss. “Don't cry. If you need it that bad, why don't you fuck me?”

That... That is not something he's considered before. Maybe because Hydra only ever used him in the passive role. Maybe because it's the last vestige of homophobia telling him that real men don't take dick; they give dick, and Stevie might not go to Hell as long as he gives dick instead of taking it.

“But you--” He's not sure how to express his feelings on this matter. “You're a man.”

Steve chuckles. “That hadn't escaped my notice, but so are you.”

“Men don't-- Real men don't... Ah, Hell, Stevie. You're not supposed to want to take the passive role.”

“Passive?” his man scoffs. “Wouldn't call the way you take my cock passive, Buck. Hey. Hey, look at me.” Steve cups his face again to prevent him from hiding. “Is this about Father Kilpatrick again?”

Bucky shrugs.

“Sugar, maybe that's something you should talk to Kit about. Maybe she can help you get some perspective on the whole thing. What I know for a fact is that organizations have agendas, even when they're draped with a cross and using the Bible to uphold their dogma.”

“But you were so devout.”

“People change. I've been reading a lot since I came outta the ice. The Catholic church isn't what our mas taught us it was. I'm sure there's still good people there; there's good and bad in everything, but they gave up the right to tell me I'm an abomination when they covered up abuses committed by priests against kids. They gave up that right when Pope Innocent received slaves for the purposes of converting them to Christianity.”

Something like peace came over him, not because he suddenly understood that the things he'd been told were wrong, no, that was a much more complicated issue. The peace came from knowing Steve wasn't the same person the same way Bucky wasn't. He didn't have to worry about being his old self since Steve wasn't his old self.

Smiling, he snuggled close.

“Maybe next time I'll fuck you instead of the other way around.”

*

Screams jar Bucky from sleep. Startled, he flies into a seated position only to realize the heart-wrenching noises are coming from Steve, who is flailing like he's in the midst of fighting for his life.

Normally, he won't wake his man from a nightmare; it can be worse than letting him finish the throes of his dreams, but he can't stand the helpless sounds his man's making. Then, he starts calling Bucky's name in a broken sort of way, his throat rough and scratchy. That does it.

Bucky eases his weight onto Steve, does his best to capture Steve's wrists to avoid being hit, and flattens his body over the other man in an attempt to hold him down. “Steve!” he calls. “Wake up. It's a dream. You're safe. I'm with you.”

His man wakes as he always does: suddenly alert. He pants for breath, chest and ribs working to get enough oxygen into his lungs, and for a moment, his eyes dart wildly around the bedroom looking for an intruder. Once that phase passes, he sags into the mattress.

“Buck?”

“You're okay, boo. I'm here. No one's gonna take me away from you again. You're safe.” He presses his lips against Steve's sweaty forehead and smooths his man's hair to calm him.

Finally, relief fills the man's voice. Two arms wind around Bucky, and Steve breathes, “You're here.”

“No where else I'd rather be, pal.”

Silence falls around them as Steve's heart thunders out of control, but he's calming down in slow increments. The trembling of his body eases.

“Better?” asks Bucky after a while.

Steve wordlessly nods.

“You wanna talk about what you dreamed?”

He shakes his head.

“You don't gotta keep that all bottled up, you know. What happened with Tony--”

“Please don't.”

So Bucky lets it go.

Tony's one of those sore subjects for both of them. He shouldn't be angry with Tony after what he did to the man's parents, but he can't help it. No matter their beef, that man's got no right unilaterally deciding Steve's not worthy of being Captain America. Howard may have crafted the shield, but Steve's the man who turned it into the symbol. In the hands of any other man, that shield isn't worth squat, nothing more than the vibranium it's made of.

Bucky drops kisses on the crown of Steve's head.

Neither of them sleep again, and night slowly rolls into dawn, at which point, their alarm clock startles them both out of their silent musings. He wants to ask Steve to take the day off, to cancel classes so they can have a picnic or spend the day taking care of each other, but he knows better. The day Saint Steve takes a day off is the day cows fly.

So Bucky gets up without grousing, dresses, makes them coffee, and puts together a bagged lunch for both of them. He changes his man's bandage and helps him dress. He even walks Steve to the office where Steve will spend most of his day with paperwork or scheduling.

They part then, and Bucky heads off to his classroom.

“Anya, come down off the ceiling, please,” he says when he enters.

She shakes her head and continues spider-walking toward the far corner, which would have been normal but for the fact she's suspended upside down from the steel rafters. When she makes it to her destination, she crouches on two crossing beams.

A sigh ruffles the hairs that have already come loose from his bun, and he stoops to swipe up the fingernail polish bottles strewn across the floor, much to the dismay of Karolina and Molly. The pair of them squawk, and Molly attempts to worm her sticky fingers into the pockets of his cargo pants to retrieve them. He seizes her wrist. She reverses the grip and attempts to bend his arm into an unnatural angle, but she's got hold of his metal arm, and it doesn't budge despite her incredible strength.

Her eyes widen. She gapes, shuffling her gaze between making eye contact and staring at the struggle taking place between their competing arms.

“How?”

Winking, he rolls up the sleeve of his zip-up hoodie to showcase the vibranium, and Molly gasps.

“Anya! I'm not gonna ask you again. Get your ass down here so we can get started.”

“Might as well let her do her thing today, Teach,” Rayshaun interrupts. “Miguel didn't show up.”

“What's that got to do with training?”

By that point, Molly finally grows bored with attempting to yank his arm off and flops onto her backside in the middle of the room to sulk. It's something Bucky's content to let her do until he's dealt with the Anya situation, which doesn't seem to be resolving itself soon.

“Her mom and pops both got killed. Mom back in Mexico by the Green Goblin and her pops by some underground organization while he was investigating corrupt politicians, so this guy, Miguel, took her under his wing. Part of the Spider Society or something weird like that.

“Anyways General Rhodes found out about her living with them and took her away from Miguel. Said Miguel wasn't any kind of father-figure for a sixteen year old girl, so he brought her here. Same thing with Karolina and Molly.” Rayshaun inclines his head toward the Pretty Pretty Princesses.

Bucky grunts his acknowledgment and resigns himself to muddling his way through the ethical implications of forcing enhanced youth into the Avengers Academy program. 'Cause it's pretty obvious Karolina, Molly, and Anya don't wanna be here. He's not sure how to handle a teenage girl's moodiness, though, and figures the best policy is preying on her competency.

So he lines the kids up, leaving Anya to herself for the time being, and sets up the same scenario they failed yesterday. This time, he puts Karolina in charge of the planning phase. Karolina doesn't do so bad, actually. She understands the other kids' powers and how best to utilize them, but she's not so good at understanding the chaos of an urban environment.

By the time they run through the scenario twice, most of the kids have died at least once, and Sooraya's getting so distracted she can't keep herself pulled together. He's pretty sure granules of her sand-form get stuck in the treads of his boots. Eventually, she separates herself from the group and bows respectfully toward Bucky.

“Mr. Barnes, may I be excused?”

“What for? You gotta hit the head or something?”

What's visible of her face colors briefly, and she bows her head away to avoid eye contact. “Kate woke early to practice for her singing, and I wasn't able to pray properly. May I please be excused to pray?”

“Sure. Can you be back in fifteen?”

“Yes, Sir.”

He waves her off.

She bows slightly, color high on her cheeks, and hurries from their classroom.

“Now, everybody get down here and start planning for our next attempt.”

It's not until half an hour later that Anya crawls down from her rafter and glides over to tell her comrades they're fifty shades of stupid and that Karolina's next plan is awful, and this is what they need to do in order to shut Mr. Barnes up and move on to something more entertaining.

They finally survive the mission, save the captives, and disable the kidnappers. Of course, most of the kidnappers are dead, and Steve frowns on unnecessary death, but hey, none of the good guys die! Bucky's got a grin on his face a mile wide when he leaves class later that afternoon. 

So he's having a pretty good day, a pretty good day that is threatened when he bumps into Sharon Carter in the facility foyer, because what in the blazing Hell is she doing at Avengers Academy, and if she thinks she's gonna steal Steve back, she's got another thing coming. Oh. Wait. He's supposed to be her friend. Friends don't--

Shit-pickles.

Rerouting, he heads in her direction to confront her presence head on. “What's up, Share?”

She stops in her tracks and does a double-take. “Wow. You look so much better than the last time I saw you,” she says before stepping forward to embrace him.

He damn near flinches but winds up submitting to the affectionate touch, albeit awkwardly, by patting her back with his metal hand, bodies as far apart as possible.

“Being in love has been good for you.”

“Yeah, well, getting regular sex is like bathing in the fountain of youth. What can I say?”

She puts a few paces of distance between them and asks, “Steve around?”

“Should be in his office. Why? Trouble?”

“Not really. I just need to talk to him about something.”

Alarm bells blare inside his head. He gulps down the rising constriction in his throat and barely rasps, “Won't keep you then” and watches her glide down the hallway toward the nearest elevator. 

She's practically glowing. And fuck, what if he's wrong? What if she is here to tempt Steve back into a relationship. What if they have unfinished business, and Steve wants to rekindle whatever they had? After all, it's a Hell-uv-a lot easier for Steve to be in a relationship with a woman than a guy. That way media can forget about Captain America being bisexual.

Breath wheezes into his lungs. His vision tunnels. Steve's gonna leave him. His man's gonna take Sharon back and leave him. Then he'll be all alone again. The happiness he's been living with lately will go away. It'll be replaced by a dark cloud of hopelessness. And Hydra will find him. And they'll manage to reprogram him, and... and... and...

“Sergeant Barnes?”

Bucky doesn't know how he got on the floor or why he's squeezing himself into a corner for protection. Reluctantly, he makes eye contact with Nezhno, the youth's dark skin highlighted by numerous tattoos inlaid into his flesh with vibranium. Light catches on the metal and gleams.

“Gentle, I didn't hear you coming.” His voice is scratchy and clipped.

“You okay, Sergeant Barnes?”

Bucky huffs a laugh, a dry, brittle sound. “Depends on your definition of okay.”

Gentle offers a hand.

Bucky accepts it with his vibranium appendage, and allows the kid to pull him to his feet.

“Panic attacks are uncomfortable at the best of times,” Gentle comments, his Wakandan accent sounding melodious. “I have found meditation to be beneficial in maintaining a state of calm. Have you tried meditation, Sergeant?”

“What? That wasn't a panic attack. That was exhaustion from wrangling a bunch of kids who don't wanna be wrangled into training so they don't get killed when they become Avengers.”

A dark brow arches toward the cranium of Gentle's bald head.

“I ain't taking psychological advice from an eighteen year old, Kid.”

Said brow arches higher.

Half an hour later, Bucky's got his well-proportioned ass plopped in the middle of Gentle's sitting room on a squishy yoga mat, legs folded Lotus-style, backs of his hands resting against his knees. 

This is ridiculous, he thinks to himself. He's not the sort of person who can shut his brain down long enough to bask in the nothingness. One would think he was, given all the programming and freezer burn from cryostasis. He should be used to sitting and staring at nothing waiting for orders, but that's not how it works in actuality. And...

And...

And... Isn't that something? The fact that he's come so far from where he once was that he's having trouble concentrating long enough to clear his mind. Weapons don't have a stream of consciousness. They await orders. They plan out missions. They carry out orders.

They don't sit criss-cross applesauce wondering which t-shirt they're gonna wear for dinner. Probably his Joker t-shirt. It fits him in such a way that it makes his pecs stand out, and sitting across from Steve-- Good Gravy, is he horny again?

He shimmies in an effort to get more comfortable before cracking an eye open to look over at Gentle.

His companion huffs. “It will not work if you are unable to concentrate, Sergeant.”

“It's not my fault!” Whining in front of a student probably isn't the best way to maintain a sense of authority, a fact that's proven when Gentle's mouth twitches in the smallest of grins.

“Do you think music would help?”

Grasping onto the idea brings back his enthusiasm. If there's one thing he loves about the modern world, it's the music that's produced. “Yeah. I bet that would work.”

So Gentle uses his phone to access a playlist. 

Music bubbles from the speakers, a rhythmic beat filled with drums and harps, rattles and a thumb piano, and he can't help it when his knees start bobbing to the infectious rhythm. It's so catchy he can't seem to sit still. Within moments, his hips are rocking back and forth, and he brings his arms up and starts snaking them through the air, a big smile curving his mouth.

Poor Gentle covers his face with both palms, but his sourness quickly sweetens, causing the Wakandan teenager to mimic Bucky. Soon, they're both on their feet gliding across the hardwood. Or rather, Gentle is attempting to show Bucky a traditional Wakandan dance that involves rapid steps and swaying, and Bucky is doing his best to follow along.

One thing's certain: he ain't thinking about Sharon and her possible aspirations involving Steve Rogers. He's thinking about how the music makes him feel. He's thinking about keeping his feet timed with the beat. He's thinking about joy and happiness and how much Hydra can't touch him here at Avengers Academy where he's building a life he didn't think he could have.

Which is how Steve Rogers finds them, mid-step, bent at the waist, arms flared out behind them. The man props his shoulder against the door jam and watches for a while, a smile on his face.

Bucky notices him sooner rather than later, and bright smile on his face, hurries over to settle both hands on Steve's waist and stretch up for a kiss.

“Having fun?”

“Loads. Steve, I want one of these.” Pulling his phone from his back pocket, he finds a picture of a kalimba, a simple thumb piano. “Can I have one?”

“Of course, Buck. You can have anything you want.” There's incredible softness in Steve's eyes when he says it, and Steve cups Bucky's neck to pull him forward for another kiss. “I thought you might be a little upset over Sharon's arrival.”

“I was,” but he says it in such a way that he sounds distracted, too intent on looking up videos on learning to play the kalimba. “Had a panic attack, but Gentle found me and tried to teach me to meditate. That didn't work, so it devolved into dancing.”

“Thanks for looking out for him, Nezhno.”

“Anything for you, Captain Rogers.”

That said, Steve wraps an arm around Bucky's shoulder and guides him from Gentle's room, the two men strolling through the halls toward the building's foyer.

“Are you interested in knowing why Sharon visited?”

“Hm?” Prying his attention away from his phone is no small feat. When he does, he exclaims, “Oh! Yeah. Why did she stop by? Is everything okay?” As her friend, he should probably be concerned or at least be able to drum up the most modest of interest.

“Things are fine. Actually, I've had her on a mission, and she graciously agreed to volunteer her time for this particular mission. Why don't we take a drive?”

The sudden change in subjects causes him to whip his head away from the screen of his phone to look up at Rogers. “Okaaaay. If you wanna, we'll go for a drive.”

So they load into Steve's SUV, and the drive really isn't anything to write home about it. Ten minutes down the main road accessing Avengers Academy, they merge onto the state highway, and Steve pulls off onto a private driveway less than five miles later. A sign outside the driveway advertises “Sunny Brook Boarding Stables.”

That peaks Bucky's interest, but what really gets him is arriving in the small parking lot to find Sharon and James Proudstar idly chatting. They glance up when the SUV's tires crunch gravel upon its approach, and James lights up with enthusiasm.

Bucky pours from the passenger seat and damn near skips over to embrace his long-lost friend. “Ishie! Right. Sorry. It's James now. Got me so used to your boyhood name I forget you're like a chameleon, changing names more than I change my shorts. What the fuck are you doing here, pal?”

“Couldn't let these doofuses bumble their way through selecting a horse for you. Máá and Taa work with horses on their ranch, which makes me the closest thing to an expert as you're going to find short of, you know, hiring an actual expert.”

“Selecting a horse for me?” He turns giant eyes toward Steve, who simply smiles that indulgent sort of smile he gets whenever Bucky asks for something. “You had them get me a horse?” And if his voice comes out with a little more squeak than normal, he'll deny it for the rest of his days.

Steve settles a hand on the back of his shoulder and turns Bucky's attention toward a woman who's walking a horse from the barn on a lead. It's a beautiful animal. Its light gray coat is dusted with cinnamon spots, and each spot sits inside a halo of lighter coloration. Color darkens into black limbs below the knees, and it has a wash of brown splotches dusting its face and neck. Its mane and tale are both a dark, soil-brown.

Bucky gapes.

“She's a peacock appaloosa,” James informs them. “Three years old, already broken for riding, and her name's Cappuccino, but you can change that if you don't like it. You'll want to register her new name, though. This girl's got a pedigree as long as your arm.”

Awe making him sluggish, he glances back at Steve for permission or reassurance, he isn't sure which. When his man nods, that indulgent smile still in place, he shuffles forward and holds out his hand to allow Cappuccino to nuzzle at his palm. Her velvety lips graze his skin. She nickers, a low rumble of sound resonating in her barrel-like chest. Then, ears perked forward, she butts her muzzle into him, damn near knocking him off his feet.

At first, he thinks she doesn't like him. The sadness that thought brings is crushing, his heart sinking into his feet and every bad thing he's ever thought about himself-- She returns, her muzzle investigating his pockets, lips mouthing at the hands he's stuffed into them.

James settles a hand on his back and says, “She's looking for treats,” and tucks a few sugar cubes into Bucky's pocket.

Bucky offers them to the mare, and Cappuccino delightfully slobbers all over his hand eating them up. After that, they're fast friends, his arm slung around her neck, the mare following him around the boarding stables like he's the Pied Piper.

Before the afternoon is out, James shows him how to saddle her and get her to comfortably accept the bit and reins. Next thing he knows, he's swinging a leg over the mare's back and mounting. He gets his feet into the stirrups. After that, all he need do is give her a little tap in the sides, and she trots away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're interested, here is a link to how I imagine Cappuccino to look. 
> 
> http://marleymortis.tumblr.com/post/165743177524/cappuccino-the-horse-steve-buys-bucky-in-my-fic


	4. Bucky Expands His World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky realizes he likes kids and takes a trip across the country without Steve to visit James Proudstar's family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a little nervous to upload this chapter which includes Bucky spending time with an Apache family. I've done the best I could in terms of research, but having never spent time with Apaches, there are some things I can't know. If you notice anything culturally insensitive, please let me know, and I'll change it.
> 
> From what I've researched, some branches of the Apache don't mind having their Mountain Spirit Dance recorded, unlike the Mescalero, who feel the Mountain Spirit Dance is too sacred to be filmed or performed in a public setting . There are some phenomenal videos of the White Mountain Apache Crown Dancers performing in public on youtube.

Time passes. Avengers Academy and its occupants fall into a routine. Bucky continues teaching urban warfare and even adds another class to the roster that covers spy craft. He has a new crop of kids to learn about, but becoming an instructor rather than a fighter isn't as an abrupt a shift as he first thought. There's something satisfying about using his skills to educate instead of destroy.

Steve and him buy a piece of property adjacent to the Avengers Academy grounds and start work on a house along with a stable and paddock for Cappuccino. Between their military back-pay—somehow, James Rhodes managed to make the military cough up seventy ears worth of pay for each of them—they don't lack for resources, so their new home goes up in record time.

It's a two-story place filled with windows that let in the natural light, and he even talks Steve into setting up an art studio in the loft space. The studio isn't enough, though. He can see Steve's restlessness bleed into the surrounding atmosphere, the man's discomfort practically a palpable thing that poisons their home, brings tension that wasn't there before.

He begins to fear the day Steve decides the domestic life isn't for him. That fucker's been fighting since the day he was born, either fighting to survive or fighting against the injustices of the world. Steve Rogers settling down and living a life of peace is about as probable as the moon crashing into the Earth.

And Bucky becomes afraid. Now that the academy is running on a regular routine, he figures it's only a matter of time before his man goes back to the battlefield. The battlefield is one place Bucky's not ready to venture, isn't sure, in fact, if he ever will be again, and the idea of losing Steve makes his stomach curdle like sour milk.

Steve's mood gets worse when autumn bleeds into winter. They fight. Normally, their fights are spectacular bursts of irritation that quickly fizzle into apology and make-up sex. It's different that winter, with Steve stewing in his own juices for unnatural stretches of time. The man's hair grows to his shoulder blades. His beard thickens. He stops painting and sketching.

Bucky's at a loss as to what to do, so he calls Kit. She doesn't have a lot to say, claims it would be inappropriate for her to attempt a diagnosis without a full interview, and that's bordering on unethical considering she's already Bucky's therapist. However, she does suggest he look into Seasonal Affective Disorder and try to talk Steve into seeing a therapist who can help him with his issues.

That conversation goes about as well as one would expect. In many ways, Steve swallowed the hyper-masculinity of the thirties and forties deeper than Bucky did. After all, a small guy beset with complicated health issues heard it more than once that he wasn't gonna amount to nothing. A man's man married young, had children, worked to provide for his family, and went to war when called upon by their country. Most of all, they didn't bitch about their internal landscape.

Buying into that brand of masculinity makes sense in Steve's case, so he flat out refuses the idea of therapy. He doesn't need some stranger telling him how to deal with his own shit.

The fight they get into that night nearly brings the roof down, and Bucky winds up sleeping in the barn with Cappuccino and her companion animal, a miniature Shetland pony he'd named Biscuit Butt. Cappuccino and Biscuit Butt share a stall, so it's nothing for Bucky to curl up in the corner to share space with them, bundled up in a thick blanket to ward off the cold.

Morning dawns to the sound of Steve's boots crunching against the frost-covered ground. He's got a thermos of steaming coffee when he opens the stall door and looks a little wild, his hair barely pulled into a topknot and beard unkempt.

Bucky glares at him over the edge of his blanket.

“I understand why Sam calls you Murder Eyes now.”

He grunts rather than responding, still sore at Steve over the fight last night and having slept in the barn with his girls. Plus, the lack of morning coffee prevents him from reuniting with his good mood.

Steve sets aside the thermos and goes about giving the horses their morning oats, both of which show their appreciation by baring teeth in an attempt to nip the interloper's fingers. Because his girls are awesome; they always know whose side to be on.

Breath hisses through the other man's teeth, and he snatches his hand back. “I fed you!”

Finally pushing aside the blanket, Bucky gets to his feet to brush bits of straw from his clothing. Only then does he partake of the coffee brought as a peace offering. There's nothing like that first sip, the bitter roast dark and smoky on his tongue.

“You got something to say to me, Rogers?”

“Yeah, I got something to say.” The confrontational tone of Steve's voice doesn't bode well, but the man's shoulders suddenly slump in a defeated posture, and he continues, “I'm-- You know, that thing where I regret some of the things I said last night.”

“You don't get forgiveness 'til you can say the goddamn word.”

“I'm s-s--” He blows out a breath and rakes fingers through his messy hair, disturbing the topknot and managing to tangle the mass of wheaten locks even worse.

Frustrated, he stomps over and bats Steve's hands aside in order to take down the topknot, at which point, he runs the mane and tail brush through his lover's hair to start working the knots free.

“Are you using the horse brush on me?”

“Shut up, pal. My horses are clean.”

Silence falls between them, disturbed by the swish of bristles through Steve's hair. Once it lays smoothly, Bucky twists it up into a proper bun at the back of his man's neck.

Then, he says, “You're gonna leave me, aren't you.”

“What?” exclaims Steve.

“You're not happy here. You're restless, and I give it another month before you leave Avengers Academy and me. Not gonna lie. That's gonna hurt like Hell, Stevie. Thought you and me were forever, but I just want you to be happy. If that's not here, then I guess-- I guess you should go somewhere where you can be.”

“No!” The larger man twists and grabs both of Bucky's hands, lips caressing the knuckles in quick, desperate kisses. “No, Buck. I'm not leaving you. Not ever. You gotta believe that, sugar.”

“I don't,” he responds in a small voice. “I ain't never had stability before. What with moving around with you back when 'cause we couldn't afford the rent regular like and Hydra moving me all over the world. Thought this would finally be stable.” He gestures to the two of them.

Moisture prickles Steve's eyes. “Ah, Hell, sugar. Guess I haven't given you much reason to believe in stability either. The way I'm always talking about--” He doesn't finish. Instead, he drags both hands over his face before continuing, “You're right. I have been getting restless, but not for a single second do I not want to spend the rest of my life with you.

“What we got's special, Buck, and I love taking care of you. I love making you happy, and if being here in this house we built together makes you happy, then I'm not going anywhere.”

“Then you're miserable. We gotta find a way, though, a way that you don't gotta live your life jumping from one war to the next.”

“Tony said that to me once, that I don't know how to live without a war to fight.”

“Yeah, well, I ain't never agreeing with anything One-eight-hundred-douche-balloon says.”

Silence hangs in the atmosphere again.

After a few moments, Bucky starts the morning routine of letting Cappuccino and Biscuit Butt into the paddock for some exercise, and their conversation may have gone incomplete, the hurdle awaiting them un-jumped were it not for Steve.

Because Steve, the courageous idiot, finally grasps Bucky's upper arms and spits out, “I'm sorry, Buck. I'm sorry we fought. I'm sorry I haven't been happy. I'm sorry I made you feel like what we have is temporary. You're worth everything, though, and if you want me to talk to someone about what I'm feeling then I'll talk to someone.”

“But you can't do it for me,” he responds, palms rising to cup Steve's elbows. “If you do it for me, it's only gonna be temporary. You learning how to cope shouldn't be contingent on me.”

Steve moves forward to envelope Bucky in a tight hug. “Let's never sleep apart again. You know, unless absolutely necessary. I don't think I can-- Fuck, I hate disappointing you, and I'll try. I'll try my best to learn how to be better.”

“That's all I need, sweetheart.”

The kiss that follows is spring rain. It's healing. It's soft and undemanding, and Bucky falls into it like falling into a cloud.

He backs up until he hits a wall, leaning his weight against it while his hand drops from Steve's neck onto his chest. From there, it glides down the man's perfect body until he cups his man's dick through thick denim. It makes his man gasp and press into the contact.

“I hate fighting with you,” Bucky murmurs against the lips mashed close to his.

“Let's never fight again.”

They'll fight again. It's impossible to live with someone, to love someone, and not fight, especially when it involves that someone's state of mind, but they'll also make up again and love again, and as Bucky slides the zipper of Steve's jeans down, he finally feels a moment of peace. For now, he believes that Steve won't leave him and the home they've built together.

He drops to his knees, senses filled with the aroma of straw and Steve. Humming, he presses his face into the other man's crotch, mouthing along the ridge of Steve's burgeoning erection hidden beneath the fabric of his man's briefs. Rogers looks ridiculously good in tighty-whities.

Pressing his tongue against the frenulum causes Steve to moan, not the muffled sound of someone trying to silence themselves but a full-throated noise that sends tingles of anticipation skittering down Bucky's spine. He closes his lips around the bulbous head and finally hooks fingers in the elastic waist band and pulls down to expose the object of his desire.

Steve's cock springs free and bobs, brushing against Bucky's face and smearing a dollop of fluid that has collected in the slit. Turning his head, he catches the tip against his tongue while gazing up at Rogers from beneath veiled eyes.

Rogers looks cut open and raw, a butterfly emerging from its cocoon, expression unveiled and filled with want. It's the least guarded Bucky's seen him since emerging from cryostasis, and he takes a moment to revel in the fact that he's done that. He's brought Steve to a place of total relaxation.

It gives him the incentive to swallow his man's cock all the way to the root. He can feel the coarseness of Steve's pubic hair against his nose. After bobbing his head a few times, he pulls back enough to support the head against his bottom lip again and pick a loose hair off his tongue, all the while keeping his eyes locked with those of his lover.

“Fuck, you got any idea what you look like right now, Buck?”

“Yeah, totally sexy. Picking your pubes from between my teeth and everything.” His comment concludes with a pouty sort of smirk. “Gonna have to shave you, sweetheart.”

Steve's cock jerks.

“You like that, huh? Like the thought of me getting you nice and wet with shaving cream and taking a razor to your sac.”

“Jesus, where the fuck do you learn this stuff? You been in cryo or on the run from the feds since getting free of Hydra.”

Another smirk forms. “Internet, Stevie.”

He doesn't give Steve the chance to reply. Rather, he swallows his man down again, letting the girth slide along his tongue into the back of his throat. The raw musk of Steve's body, clean skin and sweat and arousal, hardens him inside his jeans, and he palms his own dick to get some kind of pressure. If he doesn't, he's gonna lose his goddamn mind over the noises Steve's making.

This is where he belongs, he thinks, his lips stretched around Steve's cock, on his knees, worshiping the guy who's meant everything to him since the moment they met in a park. Since that fateful moment tiny Steve Rogers, full of spit and vinegar, came to Bucky's defense against Italian bullies who didn't like that an Irish kid was hanging around one of their girls.

Humming, he bobs on Rogers' cock, drunk on the maleness of Steve's body. Doesn't matter if he's a skinny little twerp, all acidic temper and bird bones or this Greek god cut from marble. What matters is that it's Steve, so he wraps a hand around Steve's girth and puts all his enthusiasm into the blow job like it can show Steve just how deeply Bucky loves him.

It seems to be working. What with the way Steve's eyes are crossing, and how tightly his fingers clench in Bucky's hair. The man's hips give little pulses, like he's restraining himself from fucking into Bucky's mouth. Bucky wants none of that restraint.

He pulls off to say, voice hoarse, “Give it to me, sweetheart. Fuck my face.”

“God, the mouth on you.”

But Steve complies by gripping Bucky's head and burying himself inside the heat of his mouth, and Bucky moans. Bucky moans and opens his throat to accept the silken head, his own hands gripping his lover's thighs to balance himself against the force of Steve's thrusting.

Trembling works its ways into his man's thighs. His face is cut from diamond, red and straining, the angular line of his jaw standing out with the force with which he's gritting his teeth.

“I'm gonna--”

Bucky moans again to encourage his man.

“Fuck--”

Then it's happening. Hot semen pours into his throat, and he catches it on his tongue to savor the bitter salt of his man's release, and when Steve's cock begins to wilt, he pushes to his feet, cups Steve's face, and drags him into a filthy kiss to share the ejaculate.

Steve is undone. He's still whimpering from his release, still trembling from the force of their mating, fingers curling, body arching, eyes clenching tightly to concentrate on the endorphin rush.

And doesn't that make Bucky feel like a million bucks?

Silence descends around them, broken only by the horses talking to each other out in the paddock.

When Steve recovers enough sense to speak, he grasps the back of Bucky's head and asks, “You shit and shower last night before coming out here?”

“Yeah. 'M clean, Stevie.”

“Good, 'cause I'm gonna bend you over that bale of hay and eat your ass like it's the best thing since sliced bread.”

By the time he's ass over elbows with his pants around his ankles, he takes back everything he said about not fighting with Steve. If this is how they make up, he wants to fight with him on a weekly basis because Steve's got a tongue on him that could make the Pope weep. All he can do is grab fistfuls of hay and moan his encouragement as Steve's tongue works into his asshole.

His man is relentless, licking a hot stripe from his balls to his hole while one hand snakes around his hip to grasp hold of and tug on his heavy cock. It's simultaneously too much and not enough, and when he finally comes, there's nothing he can do to withhold the fucking howl that escapes him.

*

Pattering feet against the hardwood of their bedroom wake Bucky in a state of hyper-alertness a few weeks after their fight. His hand creeps beneath the mattress where a Sig Sauer awaits and closes around the grip. The footsteps stop at the end of the bed. A light weight dips the end of the mattress.

“Sergeant Barnes?” Molly's voice is soft and frightened in the darkness.

Bucky immediately relaxes his grip and rolls onto his back, sitting up to get a better look at her. Her face is pale, eyes puffy and red from crying, and he's immediately concerned.

“What's wrong?” he asks, arms extending, one flesh, one metal.

The kid doesn't hesitate to clamber up the bed and nestle herself against his chest before whining, “I'm bleeding, Sergeant Barnes.”

Instantly alert, Bucky eases her back to get a better look at her. “Where? What happened? Did someone hurt you? Who hurt you?”

At this point, Steve rouses from sleep. “Buck?”

“Someone's hurt Molly.”

Molly shakes her head. “I'm bleeding down there.” Her glance drops to her pelvis.

He feels the sickening leech of color from his face when it dawns on him what she's talking about. What the fuck does he know about a girl's menstrual-- No, wait. He's got this. Three sisters, right? Surely he's helped deal with this at some point given the excessive number of females in his household when he was growing up.

“What?” Steve slurs.

“Nothing. Go back to sleep, Stevie. I got this.”

He pushes back the covers, gathers Molly against his chest, and gets out of bed to take her down the hall to the bathroom. Unfortunately, he realizes then he has absolutely no supplies with which contain the situation. Meanwhile, Molly is becoming more hysterical by the moment.

“Hey, sweetheart, don't cry.” After setting her on the toilet, he cups her cheeks and wipes tears from her face with his thumbs. “There's nothing wrong with you, doll face. You're just becoming a woman.”

“I don't wanna be a woman!” she wails. “It hurts, Sergeant Bee. It hurts down here.” She rubs both palms across her lower stomach.

And boy does he remember about period cramps. Becca'd spent the entire week in bed her first period because of the cramps. Ma had her sit in a tub of warm water and told her everything would be fine.

Now, he can't bring himself to be so callous with Molly. Times are different. He can't just leave a hysterical girl in a bathtub while he runs to the market to grab whats-a-ma-bobs. Instead, he tries for a reassuring smile and says, “I know it hurts, doll face. We're gonna take care of that.”

Back when Becca went through her womanly flowering, he remembers giving her these thick pads and an elastic belt to hold them in place (Mr. Polanski at the market had given him a sympathetic look when he'd rushed into buy them). He's pretty sure the technology has progressed since then, so for now, he gives her a washcloth and tells her to stuff that in her panties to sop up the blood flow. What's one washcloth in the war against fertility?

He steps outside to give her some privacy. Once there, he engages in the Bucky Barnes version of a pep talk because this is something he cannot fuck up. He can fuck up a lot of things, but he can't risk traumatizing a twelve year old, least of all one of his kids.

The door cracks open, and Molly says, “I've got blood all over my panties.”

Of course she does. That's how these things work.

But he can deal with this! She's his kid. It's his responsibility to deal with it.

Bucky pads back into the bedroom.

Steve murmurs, “Everything okay out there?”

“Yeah, I got it under control. Hey, is it okay if I take the truck? Gotta run to the market.” It will be the first time he's ever driven the SUV, the first time he's ever left Avengers Academy property alone.

“Do you want me to drive you?”

“Nah, I got this. You get some sleep. You've got that meeting with your therapist in the morning.”

“'Kay. Keys are hanging by the door.”

Grabbing a pair of Steve's briefs, he heads back to the bathroom where Molly's slightly less hysterical and is standing by the shower with a towel wrapped around her waist. Her face looks even paler in the bright light of the bathroom.

“Put these on, doll face.”

Her expression grows skeptical.

“Don't go giving me that look, squirt. We're gonna pin 'em on you for right now. How the Hell'd you make it all the way out here on foot anyway?”

“I walked.” She looks very much like she wants to sass him.

He's pretty sure he would rather have her sass than the frightened hysteria of moments ago.

She cracks open the door again when she's done, and he uses a couple of safety pins to cinch the waistband tight enough they won't fall off. Then he stuffs her inside one of Steve's big t-shirts. It hangs down to her knees and makes an effective dress, much better than the bloody nightgown she wore when she turned up in their bedroom.

The drive to the nearest market is tense. Just what does a person say to a traumatized twelve year old who's bleeding from her vagina and will do so every month for the rest of her fertile years? So he doesn't speak or try to reassure her. Instead, he sings. 

He's developed a strange fondness for Winnie-the-Pooh. Maybe because his mother went by Winnie. Maybe because the voice actors have soothing voices, and when he's having a bad day, he can stretch out in bed, pull the covers over his head, and listen to Winnie and Piglet and Tigger having fantastical adventures in the Hundred Acre Wood.

In his headcanon, Steve is totally Eeyore, by the way.

So when he sings, he croons Pooh's song as the loveable old bear rides a balloon to steal honey from the bees. He's just a little black rain cloud after all.

Molly, who snuffles back the snot in her nose, says, “You're a dork.”

It makes him snort laughter and keeps his mind off passing through the gates of Avengers Academy onto the state highway. His hands tremble a little on the steering wheel. This is farther than he's gone on his own since arriving at the academy so many months ago.

Little fingers on his flesh arm distract him, and he glances over at Molly. She makes a funny face that causes him to laugh, and he drops his hand from the steering wheel to allow her to trace random patterns on his palm. It's enough to keep him from hyperventilating over his expanding world.

Lucky for them, there's a twenty-four hour market just a couple of miles down the main road, and he pulls into the deserted lot and turns to her to instruct, “Wait here. Keep the doors locked. Don't unlock them for anyone but me. Got it?”

She nods.

“We respond verbally to our commanding officers, squirt.”

“Roger, Sergeant Barnes-Rogers.”

He gives her a funny look.

“I just always wanted to make that rhyme.” Her face hasn't grown into her teeth yet, so when she grins, it's huge and toothy, and she's too freaking adorable for words.

Of course, the idea gets him thinking. But, no, that's stupid. Steve would never want to marry him.

So Bucky hops from the SUV, locks the doors as he goes, and heads into the market where a middle-aged lady sits at the counter flipping through a magazine. He ignores her for the most part and disappears down the aisles looking for feminine products. What he isn't expecting, though, is the sheer number of available options.

There's pads and tampons. Some of them are super. Others are regular. Some have wings. Then, there's an overnight variety that looks more like a fucking diaper than anything an adult woman would wear, and just what the fuck is he supposed to buy? Isn't there an age category? Her little twitchet can't be big enough yet for the fucking torpedo-sized super tampons. Right?

Right. He needs reconnaissance, so he whips out his phone and calls Laura. Laura! Why the fuck didn't he think of taking Molly to Laura in the first place? It makes the most sense. In all fairness, Bucky was woken from a sound sleep and probably wasn't thinking with all his brain power at the time.

“Bucky?” Laura's voice is clear as a bell.

“Fuck, please tell me you were up feeding the Barton spawn.”

“Yeah. Little Natasha is a hungry monster. She takes after her father, after all.”

“Bring Tassy by tomorrow. I wanna hold her.”

“You are not nicknaming my kid, Barnes!” Clint's voice is muffled by distance.

Laura snaps, “Shut the fuck up, Grumpy Cat. If he wants to call her Tassy, he can call her Tassy.” A beat of silence passes. “Shit. Language.”

Bucky can't swallow the grin creeping across his lips. “Stop arguing, you two. I got a question.”

“Shoot.”

“Molly started her period and came to me for help. We're at the store. What the fuck do I buy for her? They've got shit here that looks like they could stem the flow of Niagara Falls.”

“Okay. She's gonna want someone, another woman most likely, to show her how to use a tampon, so don't worry about those right now. Just grab the biggest package of pads that say “overnight” with wings. That will get her through the first few days when the flow is always the heaviest.”

He grabs the package and tucks it under his armpit. “What about for pain?”

“Is there anything on the shelf called 'Midol' or 'Pamprin?' They might have those behind the counter on account of people stealing them.”

Locating a tiny pink box advertising “extended release” isn't difficult. It's right there for the world to see, so he grabs two boxes. “Got it. Anything else?”

“Chocolate. Get that kid lots of chocolate and bring her over tomorrow. We'll talk about menstrual cups, and I'll walk her through inserting a tampon. If she starts crying about blood clots, tell her it's completely normal, and that she's not dying.”

“What the fuck is a menstrual cup?”

The clerk glances up sharply.

“It's a reusable cup you insert into your vagina that collects the flow. Then you remove it, dump the contents in the toilet, and wash it to be reused.”

Bucky shudders and bitches, “The shit you ladies have to deal with.”

They hang up, and he takes his purchases to the counter, and he can't help but wonder if the clerk is giving him funny looks or if he's just freaking out because he feels like he needs to show a special club card or something to be able to purchase sanitary products.

He says, “What? They're for my daughter. Single dad here. Gotta take care of my little girl.”

Bag in hand, he heads back out to the car where Molly is playing a game on her cell phone.

The next morning, Steve pads into the great room and finds them passed out on the sofa surrounded by Hershey Kiss wrappers, the television on and softly droning about the orangutans on Orangutan Island.

*

“You sure you've got everything, sugar?” Steve hangs around the foot of their bed picking through Bucky's open suitcase. “Got enough socks and underwear?”

“Stevie, it's fine!” Exasperated, Bucky grips his man's shoulder and bodily moves the guy away from the suitcase to stop his fussing.

It's April, and spring is in full bloom.

Christmas was a fantastic time at Avengers Academy, the first real Christmas full of all the trimmings and mountains of presents Bucky ever celebrated. A big tree filled a corner of the common room with twinkling lights and the smell of fresh cedar, and the kids' eyes lit up when they woke up one morning to find the place decorated so festively.

A lot of the kids had never celebrated Christmas around people who cared about them. Kids like Molly and Karolina, whose parents had spent the majority of their formative years gallivanting across the universe committing gross misconduct, didn't know what a real Christmas should be like.

Later, all the Avengers—minus Tony, who still nursed wounded pride, and Rhodey, who opposed attending to stand in solidarity with Tony—infiltrated the Rogers household for a more intimate Christmas full of presents, food, and eggnog.

Steve called Tony. Their conversation was brief.

“I wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas, Tony.”

“Yeah. Yeah, same to you,” Tony returned in a drunken slur.

“Tony--” Steve's jaw worked through the tension snapping him tight. “Tony is there any way-- I know I hurt you, but is there any way we could fix this?”

“Still sleeping with that murder?”

Steve flinched then. “It's not--”

“Nah, I think that's exactly how it is. You chose a murderer over our friendship.”

“Yeah,” Steve snapped. “Yeah, I chose the guy I've known most of my life, the guy who wiped my ass when I was too weak to move, the guy who sacrificed his own college education to make sure we had a roof over our heads and food in our bellies, the guy that never once complained about the long hours he put in at the docks just to pay for my tuition to art school.

“You're damn right I chose that guy over everything else in my life.” Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. “And I would do it again. Every day of the week and twice on Sunday, and if you choose to take that personally, that's on you.

“Maybe if you'd crawl out of the bottle long enough to look at the facts, you'd realize that Bucky didn't have a fucking choice in the matter--”

Bucky snatched the phone from Steve's hand. “I remember your mother.”

“I have no interest in speaking to you.”

“I remember Maria Stark. They gave me a packet of information about your parents. Maria Stark operated a non-profit foundation for poor kids. She planned and held charity events to raise money for veterans. She founded an organization that provided grants to young entrepreneurs.

“Every day, I see her and think to myself 'how would Maria Stark ask me to pay for my sins.' I light candles for her in the chapel daily. That's not enough. I know it's not. Nothing I can do will return her to you, but your friendship with Steve shouldn't be dependent on my place in his life.

“Steve may not have told you about their deaths and my part in it, but it came from a place of misguided concern. He wanted to protect me, sure, but he also wanted to protect you and save you from going to bed nightly with that image behind your eyes.

“Don't forgive me. Fuck, I can take your hatred. I'm used to it. Forgive Steve. He's not the one who killed them. Don't damn him for loving the devil when he's not the devil himself.”

He handed the phone back to Steve, then, and left them to their conversation. Confessing himself to Tony didn't magically lift a weight from his shoulders. His hands were no less absolved of having murdered them, but he did feel a sense of peace.

Steve found him a few minutes later, wrapped both arms around him and whispered, “I love you.”

Bucky shakes aside the memories and grins at Steve before zipping up his baggage.

“Did you remember your toothbrush?”

“Goddamn it!” Swinging around, he marches into the bathroom to pack away his toothbrush.

They exchange hugs and kisses at the front door where James Proudstar's waiting with a rental car to take him to the airport. Part of him is reluctant to go since it'll be the first time him and Steve have been apart since the group home. Also, it'll be the first time he's flown commercial.

So he lingers for a few moments to soak in that extra bit of Steve before gathering his baggage and dropping them in the trunk. Moments later, they're heading down the drive, and Bucky turns in his seat to catch a last lingering glance of his man, his heart seizing momentarily with anxiety once he loses sight of Steve Rogers' solid frame.

“Dude, are you going to mope the whole time? Because if you're going to mope the whole time, I can kidnap Rogers and toss him in the trunk? We'll be in the air with him in the cargo hold with the rest of the luggage before he wakes up.”

“No, I can do this.” Bucky rearranges himself to sit properly in the passenger seat. “My ass is a little sore, so you'll have to forgive me if my shifting around drives you nuts.”

“Why is your ass-- Never mind. I just decided I don't want to know the answer to that question.”

“Steve gave it to me good last night.”

“Didn't I just say I didn't want to know?”

Bucky bites his lip around the grin attempting to form on his lips. “He tried to sooth it with his tongue afterward. I think it's called felching, but it just wasn't quite enough.”

James blurts out the opening strains of '99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall.'

Getting Bucky through security isn't as difficult as he previously guessed thanks to Doctor Cho. Before leaving, she gave him papers to present to the TSA agents that explain the metal prosthetic and how it isn't removable. The agents take a look at his paper and wave him through their machine where he grabs his carry on and shoes and plops down nearby to lace them up tight again.

They're surrounded by people, and he's a little like a kid in a candy store, not because of the people (he doesn't like that aspect of the airport since people still make him nervous) but because of the whole city, the restaurants and cafes and boutique shops, located inside the terminals.

James suggests he visit a mall some time if he really wants his mind blown.

He especially gets a kick out of the underground trams that deliver them to their destination, and James indulges him as he rides it a few times while waiting for their boarding time. Ultimately, they get a bite to eat at a burger joint and arrive at their gate with plenty of time before boarding.

James got them priority boarding, so Bucky doesn't need to fight the throngs of people for long. They get to board ahead of most other passengers and find their seats and stow their carry on bags without tripping over anyone. Then, Bucky settles into his window seat for the duration of the flight.

Turns out he loves flying. Being so high up makes the world look small in comparison and puts things into perspective for him. He may have inadvertently shaped the world while working for Hydra, but the planet is so much bigger than that. He is just a speck in the grand scheme of things. The planet went on long before his arrival and will continue spinning long after he's dust.

Once they land in Roswell, New Mexico, Bucky is introduced to an Apache man named Michael Klinekole. Mike is rotund with skin darker than James' and sporting long braids wrapped in buckskin, and when he hugs a person, he hugs them with his whole body.

Bucky hates Mike hugs at first.

They load their luggage in Mike's truck, and Bucky somehow finds himself mashed between the two Apache men in the truck's cab. He stares longingly at James' position near the window but figures he better make his peace with being a proverbial bug on Michael's windshield. The guy smells like corn and sweat and some earthy odor that reminds him of herbs and growing things.

But the newcomer's enthusiasm slowly wins him over during their hour and a half long drive to the reservation, and from there, they have a further hour to the ranch owned and operated by James' family on the outskirts of reservation territory.

Turns out, Mike is James' cousin and lives with the family. He doesn't smoke peyote. He attends online classes at a nearby university. When he's not working around the ranch or in class, he loves playing horror games on the computer, and yes, they get the internet even so far out from civilization.

Eventually, they drive up a long, gravel road and park outside a ranch-style, brick home with a covered deck. It sits atop a ridge overlooking acres of scrub grass and forests. At the bottom of the hill, he can see a large barn and several other outbuildings. Horses and cattle dot the landscape.

And it all looks so normal.

Bucky steps from the truck and stands taking it all in.

“What?” James asks, voice trembling with a laugh. “Did you think we live in tipis or something?”

Okay, so maybe he thought they live in more traditional style housing, but he's good at rolling with punches and follows the two men onto the front porch where a robust woman with graying hair steps out, rubbing her hands on an apron. She doesn't make eye contact with him but greets her returning son with open arms. At which point, she nags him about chores.

“Máá, I just got back!”

“That means you have plenty of time to do your chores tonight. Michael, wipe those feet off before you enter my house.” Finally, she addresses Bucky. “Welcome. Let's get your things settled in James' room. I hear you'll be joining us for the Shis-Inday Spring Pow Wow.” She still won't make eye contact, and he wonders if he's done something to offend, or if she somehow knows he's the former Winter Soldier, who killed a bunch of people and nearly destroyed the American government.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Such wonderful manners. Teach my son such manners. Come.”

Gathering his bags, he follows her into the house and upstairs to a modest bedroom. Someone has rolled out a trundle bed, and he claims that for himself.

She turns to leave.

He blurts out, “Can I help with anything?”

“You're a guest.”

“I'd like to help.”

She nods, and he follows her back downstairs where she hands him an apron.

They spend the afternoon taking ground corn and turning it into dough, and when he asks about a stone platform on the counter accompanied by a long, round stone, she tells him “this is what I use to mix the tortilla dough” before using the roller to flatten out some of the dough they prepared earlier.

Then, they take their balls of dough to a press to flatten into tortilla shapes, and after, they go outside, Bucky's arms laden with prepared dough to a large, round griddle situated over an open fire. 

Mrs. Chino, when he asks about what the object is, says, “This is what I use to bake the tortillas on.” She chuckles at his confusion over her manner of speech.

“Whites, you focus on objects. You say 'this is my stove,' and 'that is my telephone.' We Apache look at the world differently. Things aren't objects. They're actions. This is what I use to cook tortillas. That is what I use to call my sister in Santa Fe.”

As the afternoon wears on and they cook corn tortillas, he relaxes in her presence and finds a certain accomplishment in helping put dinner on the table for the hungry family, one of which is Mr. Chino, who sits at the head of the table and is the most sarcastic asshole on the planet. Steve will fall head over heels in love if they're ever introduced.

It isn't until much later he realizes he forgot to call Steve when they landed in New Mexico, so he excuses him and steps onto the front porch.

“Bucky, thank God. I was starting to get worried,” Steve says over the connection.

“I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I forgot to call when we landed, but we're here safe. James' family is wonderful. Did you know they live in a regular house? They don't live in a wigwam at all. James is taking me out to meet the horses tomorrow. His dad is so funny, and his ma won't look me in the eyes, but she's been so welcoming.”

“Oh, I read about that somewhere!” exclaims Steve. “Not making eye contact is a sign of respect, not dislike. Jenny Walters was talking about a court case where a man refused to make eye contact and the judge tried to hold him in contempt until it was explained it's a cultural thing.”

“Oh.” He lets that marinate for a few moments while watching the sun go down over the horizon. “So we're going to the pow wow on Saturday. Mike, James' cousin, has this whole outfit he has to wear. You should see the headdress. It's ridiculous and amazing at the same time.”

“You'll take plenty of pictures, right?”

“Of course. I made tortillas with Máá today, and she didn't look twice at me when I told her about you, so I don't need to hide the fact that I'm hopelessly gone on a man, at least not to the family. I honestly didn't expect them to be so forward.”

“You realize a lot of their traditions were wiped out when Christianity was introduced, right? Homosexual individuals could have been revered by native cultures for all we know, but once Christianity got their hands on them, it would have all gone downhill from there.”

“Right! There's a Catholic Church here, but it's too far of a drive so late at night, so would you please go to the chapel and light a candle for Maria and Howard for me?”

“Sure.”

“We're about to watch Michael kick the snot out of James on Mario Kart, so I'm gonna go for now.”

“Call me tomorrow?”

“Definitely. Love you, Sweetheart.”

“Love you, too.”

*

The following day, James shows him around the ranch, and he has a fabulous time meeting all the horses. The Chino family breeds and trains appaloosas and quarter horses to serve as ranch mounts. Frankly, Bucky couldn't bring himself to sell someone he's raised since birth. It would feel like absolute betrayal, and the thought of that horse looking at him with sad eyes while being led onto a horse trailer makes him sick to his stomach.

He falls in love with a buckskin mustang called Sháa, the Mescalero word for sun, and spends more than an hour in the field hand-feeding him carrots. Sháa follows him around for the rest of the day, muzzle attempting to worm its way into Bucky's pockets or lipping at Bucky's hair as it escapes from the bun he twisted it into that morning.

At dinner that night, Mrs. Chino says, “You will purchase Sháa for the sum of six hundred dollars and pay the shipping costs to have him delivered to your homestead in New York.”

Bucky almost chokes on his peas. “Beg your pardon?”

“I can't let you have him for free, you understand. That gift is much too generous for someone who is not my son, but we purchased him from a mustang auction for six hundred dollars. Our gift to you comes in the form of the hours we spent training and caring for him.”

He can't help but stutter because he didn't expect to go home with another horse. Still, he's about a hundred percent certain Steve won't deny him something he wants. Since when has Steve ever denied him, so he accepts the bargain with a nod. “I will pay six hundred dollars for him and arrange shipping home to New York. You're very generous.”

“You're the most respectable white man my son has ever brought home.”

“Why did the white man visit the moon?” Mr. Chino asks out of the blue.

No one else asks, so Bucky does. “I don't know. Why?”

“He heard the Indians had land there.”

Dead silence follows, but Bucky snorts, and tension around the table snaps as everyone joins in.

Bucky says, “We used to have these jokes back in the nineteen thirties called Little Audrey jokes. Humor was pretty macabre back then what with the Great Depression and everything. Let me see if I can remember one.” His memory can still be pretty shoddy, but he remembers the first time he repeated one of the jokes to Steve, who laughed until milk came out his nose.

“Little Audrey was playing with matches. Her mama said, 'You better not do that,' but Little Audrey was awful hard-headed; she kept right on playing with matches, and after a while, she set the house on fire, and it burned to the ground. Mama and Audrey were looking at the ashes, and Mama said, 'I told you so. Now listen here, young lady, when your papa comes home, you certainly will catch it!' Little Audrey just laughed and laughed. She knew all the time that Papa had come home an hour earlier and had gone to bed to take a nap.”

Mr. Chino nearly doubles over with laughter, and when he can get air into his lungs to speak, he says, “I like this one, James. Funniest white boy you ever brought home.”

That evening, they sit around a bonfire outside. Mike and James produce two drums, and they play music while Mr. Chino sings traditional Indian songs. It prompts Bucky to retrieve his kalimba. He waits a few moments to study the rhythm before joining in with the drums.

It's a pleasant evening, and while Bucky misses Steve terribly, he recognizes the importance of not basing his entire well-being on being around Steve Rogers. That's partially the point of the trip, after all, to prove to himself and Kit that he's not shoved so far up Rogers' ass that he can't interact with strangers without his man.

After everyone else has gone to bed, Bucky steps onto the porch again to call Steve. The first thing out of his mouth is, “I need six hundred dollars.”

“Oh God, you haven't been arrested, have you?”

Laughing, he shakes his head only to remember Steve can't see him. “No.”

“Okay, then. Just go to the nearest ATM and use the Citi card to make a withdrawal. Do you remember the PIN number?”

And just like that, Bucky's got access to their bank accounts without Steve asking a single question. Maybe he likes this whole sugar daddy thing Steve's got going on too much.

The good feelings of last night disappear the second Bucky slips from Mike's truck at the festival grounds where dozens of traditional wickiups dot the landscape. People mill through the surroundings in various stages of dress. Some wear the buckskin leathers from pre-European times. Others wear cloth shirts and skirts or breechcloth and leggings made from cotton. Drumming teams set up their drums, and dancers practice last minute steps.

Realizing he knows no one except the small group of James and his relatives, he sticks close, trails after them like a lost puppy for fear someone will recognize him as the former Winter Soldier and attack him. Not everyone agreed with his pardon. Not everyone buys into brainwashing.

So the idea of being lost among the crowd leaves him with a tight chest. He can't seem to draw a full breath. The crowds press in around him. He's not worthy of the space he takes up and tries to make himself smaller. He can't breathe. Why can't he breathe?

When he comes to, James sits on the ground across from him, Bucky's hand cradled in James', fingertips being pressed against the steady rate of James' pulse. He hasn't drawn attention to Bucky's anxiety attack except to take them into an area free of people.

“Better?”

He huffs a breath and nods. “Don't like being around strangers. There's just a lot of people here.”

James directs him back toward the Chino line of horse trailers and sets him to the task of painting designs on the shoulders of each horse with grease-based face paint. The Chino family will put on a demonstration of horsemanship later, and Bucky's happy to help with preparations. He doesn't need to worry about horses recognizing him and going on the attack.

Mike returns to the trailers while they rest of the Chinos change into their riding gear, takes him by the metal wrist, and drags him toward a vendor selling tacos. They loiter nearby eating while Mike regales him with gossip from former pow wows, like how old Joseph Two Moons, a Cheyenne who has been formally adopted into the Mescalero, once got so drunk he streaked across the festival grounds buck naked impersonating a buffalo.

He can always count on Mike to take his mind off whatever's bothering him. Before he knows it, the pow wow gets into full swing. A group of women open the proceedings with a traditional dance. Drumming competitions follow, and Bucky is grateful they don't make him the special white snowflake who miraculously gets invited to join in their sacred ceremonies. 

No thank you. He will keep his feet to himself. Except, a group of children take interest in him. Before he knows it, they have him stepping around a circle and swaying to the drum beats. It's not until after he's done his best to follow their moves that he finds out he just took part in a First Moccasin ceremony wherein children receive their first pair of moccasins. Somewhere along the line, a group of mothers wrangle him out of his combat boots and put him into a pair of moccasins.

Dancers take a break, then, as the Chino family mount up and thunder across the open field aboard their appaloosas, and watching them takes Bucky's breath away. He films them as they throw spears and shoot arrows at targets displaying their marksmanship, and he so wants to do that!

James brings Sháa around once he's made his own pass and offers Bucky the reins. The stallion immediately butts his head against the back of Bucky's shoulders and attempts sneaking his muzzle into the pocket of his jeans looking for treats. He's pretty sure the mustang is like a gigantic teenager.

“You ever fired a bow before?”

“I have. I know a guy. Makes his living working with archery.”

“Well, get to it.”

“Seriously? I don't want to be that guy who interrupts sacred proceedings.”

“This isn't sacred. We're just shooting arrows at targets.”

Bucky puts his foot in the stirrups and swings into the saddle, prompting Sháa to prance sideways, ears perked forward and head held high. He thinks to himself that he wouldn't have been able to ride with Hydra's arm. It was heavy as fuck and would have made it impossible for the horse to carry him, but T'Challa's new, lighter, prosthetic barely weighs more than his own arm.

He centers himself in the saddle, accepts the bow and arrow, and gets in line with the rest of the Chino family. Mrs. Chino offers him a stern look and instructs him not to damage the family reputation by missing his targets. Mr. Chino calls him a dumb loaf of white bread with that tone that says he's quite fond of Bucky despite the insulting nature of his sarcasm.

When the course is set, he puts his heels to the stallion, who bolts toward the targets. He allows the reins to rest against his thighs, takes bead on the first target, and fires an arrow that hits dead center. Then, he whips to the other side and fires off another arrow, going down the line of targets. The crowd applauds him, and turning to look at his results, he feels a spike of pride to see he's nailed every one.

“Dumb white bread is a natural,” Mr. Chino barks after Bucky slows Sháa to a stop beside the other horses. “Dumb white bread must have experience.”

“He was a sniper in the army, Dad,” James says.

“You are my son, now and will endeavor to teach Michael how to shoot like that before he sinks the rest of us like the Titantic.”

“He's gonna need a lot of work to whip into shape,” Bucky responds.

“But Uncle Nantan, nobody wants to see all this gorgeousness get to jiggling on top of a horse.” Mike indicates his girth, now cloaked with white body paint overlaid with black designs.

“It'll be like Farfelkugel in Men in Tights when Broomhilde tries to drop onto him from the balcony above. That horse's going to move out of the way and drop your ass on the ground,” James crows.

Mr. Chino laughs until he wheezes. Mrs. Chino looks on impassively. Bucky is completely lost since he hasn't seen that particular movie, and the pop culture reference goes right over his head.

Mike, always affectionate, surprises him by snatching him into another hug, and Bucky realizes he doesn't mind Mike hugs so much anymore. In fact, they're quite reassuring. 

They work together to cool the horses off, wash them free of paint, and get them settled in a makeshift corral for the rest of the pow wow. Bucky lingers with them for a while. At first, it's because he needs to allow the adrenaline to work through his system. Then, it turns into a game in which Sháa closes his teeth around the sleeve of Bucky's shirt and refuses to let go. Every time he tries to walk away, the stallion drags him back.

It's cute as fuck. He lays his palm against the stallion's forehead and says, “Did you know I used to use my skills to murder people? These hands have murdered people, darling. But today I used them to play a game. I used my skills for something non-lethal.”

The stallion nickers, sound rumbling in his barrel-like chest.

“You got any idea how amazing that is? My hands don't gotta be about death and destruction. I can be good at something without it involving violence.”

He buries his face in the stallion's silken, black mane and inhales horse flesh and hay.

Eventually, night falls, and people light bonfires and begin gathering around the largest of said fires. Mrs. Chino links her arm with Bucky's and guides him over to a group of camp chairs Mr. Chino set up, and they take their seats. It's clear what's coming next is special by the quiet that falls over the gathering, the way voices lower and children are pulled close.

A group of dancers approach. They're all men. Each man is painted block. White designs decorate the black paint. They wear buckskin skirts adorned with beading and a spray of fir branches around their waists. Bells, fastened to leather belts, jingle with each step they take. Black hoods cover their heads and are topped by large, geometric structures that serve as headdresses.

One man bows his body and uses the ends of his headdress to carve through the dirt, flinging clods of soil in all directions when he shakes his head in mimic of an animal.

Mike trails behind them, painted white and wearing a smaller headdress than the others. The clown, Mrs. Chino says, voice hushed. Out of all the Mountain Spirit Dancers, the clown is said to be the most sacred, the most powerful.

Once the drums begin, the dancers join in, voices raised in sing-chanting, and they begin their unique bounce-steps as they move around the circle of onlookers. Mike runs amongst them performing outrageous physical comedy and scaring misbehaving children. 

Between their pounding feet and the drums, Bucky can feel vibrations working through the ground, and it touches him somewhere deep, that he can be part of something so sacred, that they invited him into their world.

Bucky lifts his phone with the intent of filming the performance, but Mrs. Chino stops him.

She says, “We don't record the Mountain Spirit Dancers. They are sacred healing spirits and not for the outside world to see. It's disrespectful. They represent the spirits who come down from the mountains bringing healing and protection.

“Tonight, two of our daughters come of age.” She inclines her head toward two girls sitting nearest the fire. “They dance in honor of her coming of age rites.”

And of course he respects their wishes. Rather than filming them, he leans his head against Mrs. Chino's shoulder, wraps the light blanket around himself, and enjoys the energy the dancers bring.

*

Being a stressed out horse daddy isn't fun. See, there's absolutely zero chance he's trusting strangers to haul Sháa across the country to New York regardless of how good the company's reputation is, so he cancels his flight and rents a horse trailer for the journey, stopping nightly at “horse motels” that allow him to stable the stallion overnight. This prevents Sháa from becoming overly stressed, and he winds up taking to travel with relative ease.

And because James is starting university, he can't co-pilot the operation. It's only Bucky Barnes, a mustang, and the radio for ten days on the open road. 

He goes a little mental when his stallion develops a limp (he nearly bites the head off one of the stable hands at a horse motel) and makes an emergency stop at an equine hospital in Kentucky. The vet doesn't make fun of him upon discovering Sháa has a rock buried deep in the frog of his hoof.

So ten days, fifty cups of coffee, one extraordinarily over-priced hospital bill, and a crabby stallion later, he finally pulls into the driveway of the home he shares with Steve, who walks out onto the porch cradling a cup of coffee with eyes as huge as saucers when he notes the horse trailer.

“What did you do, Buck?”

Bucky groans when he climbs from the truck and arches his back to ease a cramp.

“I thought you'd decided to stay longer, not-- Jesus Christ, did you drive across country by yourself?”

“Yep. Now quit bitching like a housewife and come give me a kiss.”

Steve is quick to obey the request, cups Bucky's cheek, and pulls their mouths together. The kiss is chaste but tender with his man's thumb stroking back and forth across the arch of his cheekbone. Absorbing the man's presence after so long apart makes him feel settled in ways he didn't know was possible, so he allows himself a few extra moments pressed up against Steve.

And Steve, the big doof, grins down at Bucky before rubbing the tips of their noses together. “Only you could go away to visit friends and come back with another horse.”

“Are you angry?” he asks with a bowed head.

“God, no! Buy all the horses you want, sugar, as long as that makes you happy, but Cappuccino and Biscuit missed you something fierce. They've been inconsolable.”

Keeping his other babies waiting a moment longer isn't happening, so he extricates himself, opens the trailer, and backs Sháa onto solid ground. The stallion half-rears and paws the gravel drive with excitement, nostrils flared, and attention trained toward the paddock where Steve turned Cappuccino and Biscuit out that morning.

A hyperactive stallion doesn't go in the same paddock with an intact mare and a gelding. Bucky turns him out into an adjacent paddock where the horses can get to know each other with a stout fence between them. That way they don't fight. It's a good thing he does it because Biscuit takes exception to the stallion's presence and turns into a tiny raging ball of fury that reminds him a lot of tiny Steve.

He spends the rest of the morning with Cappuccino and Biscuit before retreating back to the house where he finds that Steve has already unpacked his suitcase and thrown everything into the hamper.

Overcome with a feeling of contentment, he wraps his arms around his man's middle and inhales deeply of Steve's scent, a combination of aftershave and fabric softener and clean skin. He says, “Missed you, sweetheart.”

Steve turns in his arms. “Missed you, too. Did you have a good time?”

“The best.”

Their kiss is like throwing gasoline on fire; it ignites their passion, and they waste no time stripping each other. Steve eventually drops to his knees and traces the grooves of Bucky's Adonis belt with his tongue. It makes Bucky's loins tighten with anticipation.

Before he knows it, his man's sucked his cock to the back of his throat, and fucking Hell does Steve Rogers have a mouth on him that could make a priest turn his back on his vows. The wet heat surrounding him makes his knees weak. The tightness of Steve's throat gulping around the head starts him shaking. He knows at this point that he won't last long, not after nearly a month apart.

But Steve isn't looking for fast. He glances up from his knees and says, “I want you to fuck me.”

Bucky damn near stutters. “You ever taken a dick before, sweetheart?”

“Nope, but I want you to be my first. My first and my last. My only.”

“Lie down on your stomach on the bed.”

Bucky swallows heavily over the sight before him when Steve is spread eagle, that generous ass on display and waiting for him. It's like a shot of adrenaline straight to his libido. He presses the heel of his palm against his dick because he has no idea how he's gonna last long enough to please them.

He starts by finding the lube and generously slicking his fingers. He teases Rogers with the tip, caressing down the length of his crack to tickle the underside of his man's hairy balls. It's enough to make his lover shiver, but Bucky's not gonna torment the guy or keep them waiting when it's been so long since they've had sex. He presses the tip against the tight furl.

“It's gonna feel a little strange, sweetheart, but it shouldn't be painful. No gritting your teeth and thinking of baseball stats, okay? If it hurts, you tell me. If you don't like it, you tell me.”

Steve nods.

“Gonna need a little more than that, sweetheart.”

“I hear you.”

Finally, he eases a finger inside Steve's channel. The heat and tight clutch is nearly his undoing, but he perseveres until he feels the muscle relax enough for a second finger. That makes Steve tighten up, but he doesn't seem like he's in any pain.

Once he has three fingers nestled inside his man's ass, he curls them until he finds Steve's prostate, causing the other man to swear a blue streak and spread his legs wider.

“You like that, sweetheart?”

“Fuck yes.”

He slicks himself once he figures Steve is loose enough and rubs his cockhead against Steve's hole to get him used to the sensation. It makes his man shiver again. Steve grumbles something about not teasing him, so Bucky takes pity.

Slowly, he presses inside, doesn't stop until he's buried to the hilt, his pelvis resting against Steve's ass. His lover tenses slightly only to relax as his body adjusts. Only then does Bucky move his hips.

“Don't hold back, Buck. Feels good. Didn't think it would feel this good.”

He's still not willing to be too harsh, isn't until Steve reaches back and clenches his fingers against Bucky's flank to pull him in harder, and judging by the moans he's eliciting from Steve, he's pretty sure the guy isn't gritting his teeth while thinking of his conjugal duties.

Control slips through his fingers. He braces his hands on either side of Steve's head. Pounds into the tight clutch of his ass. Loses himself in sex, sweat, and need. Loses himself in Steve and the wet sounds of their bodies slapping together and pulling apart.

“Stevie, you got no idea. Fuck, sweetheart. You're so good to me. You're so fucking good.”

Steve rolls his hips to meet Bucky's thrusts before coming up on his knees, spreading them wide so every thrust makes his cock swing and brush against the comforter. The muscles in his back clench and ease with the shifting of his movements. His head hangs between his shoulders, forehead against the bed in a way that muffles the grunts and whimpers.

“Harder, Buck. Fuck me harder. Please.”

He grasps his man's hips and jackhammers into his love, holds him so tightly his hips'll be bruised. Fuck, he loves the way Steve's ass jiggles with every punch of his cock into his man's body. He can't even... Both palms slide up the long line of Steve's back to grasp those broad shoulders for more leverage, a stronger grip, to yank Steve back on his cock with more force.

Suddenly, Steve's howling. His head's thrown back. His whole body goes rigid.

Even before his man's done orgasming, Bucky joins him slapping their bodies together once, twice, three times before clamping them tightly together as his cock empties into the hot, slick channel clutching at him. He's pretty damn sure there are black spots floating around his vision.

After, they collapse side by side, both panting for breath.

When Steve gets some semblance of control back, he says, “Never letting you go away for so long again, sugar.”

“Maybe you should let me go away more often if this is what happens when I come home.” There's a huge, Cheshire grin on Bucky's face when he rolls over to drape himself on Steve's chest.

They'll fuck again. Hell, they'll probably fuck three or four times before they venture out for dinner, and God, Bucky doesn't know how he deserves this, but he's too selfish to consider pointing that fact out to Steve. In fact, he's pretty sure he'll do something drastic if Steve ever leaves him. Maybe that's not healthy, but since when has Bucky Barnes been healthy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is a picture of what Biscuit Butt looks like: http://marleymortis.tumblr.com/post/166087813504/this-is-what-buckys-shetland-pony-biscuit-butt
> 
> Here is a picture of what Sháa looks like: http://marleymortis.tumblr.com/post/166087881399/this-is-what-sh%C3%A1a-looks-like-buckys-mustang
> 
> One last note: It might be two or three weeks before I upload the last chapter. I have a deadline to meet for the Stucky Scary Bang and will be concentrating my efforts on finishing my entry for that. When I'm done with that, I'll be able to come back to this and finish up the last chapter.


	5. Bucky Becomes A Real Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky learns some valuable lessons about the nuances of human emotions, gets some hobbies, and realizes he's a real boy after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your patience while I wrapped this up. My life has been incredibly busy lately, and I had a huge deadline to meet. Part of me isn't satisfied with this chapter. I think I was losing focus or inspiration to complete this, so I just wanted to get something down that might be a satisfying ending for anyone reading it. I hope I've done that and shown Bucky's continual recovery in reconnecting with his humanity after Hydra.
> 
> Thanks so much for everyone who read, commented, and left kudos.

The next morning, two fingers slip inside the sloppy looseness that is Steve's asshole. Dawn paints the sky with shades of gray and pink, and Bucky knows their alarm clocks will be going off soon, but they still have time for one more. When he pulls Steve's leg over top his own hip, the muscular contours of Steve's back against his chest, Steve murmurs something unintelligible..

“I want your ass, sweetheart,” he whispers in his man's ear.

“Again? You're insatiable, sugar.”

A soft hum escapes him, and he's encouraged when Steve wiggles his hips, rubbing that delectable ass right against Bucky's straining cock. When he slips inside and the heat envelops him, he can't help groaning, voice gone hoarse from numerous bouts of lovemaking. Steve's so loose, his man takes him easily and doesn't even wince from the pressure of Bucky's invasion.

“Love your cock.”

“Love your ass.”

Energetic strains of AC/DC's 'Thunderstruck' sounds from the nightstand, and Bucky whines. It means Thor's calling, and Thor doesn't call unless things are drastic. Or he's discovered something incredible he thinks Steve should learn about modern culture right-the-fuck-now. The pair bonded over getting caught up with pop culture, Steve being a man out of time and Thor an alien.

“Don't answer it, sweetheart.” He lazily rolls his hips, feels the drag of Steve's insides around his cock. 

“Buck.” Steve smacks gently at Buck's hip. “I gotta, sugar.”

Growling in frustration, he pulls out to flop onto his back. There he is: hard, raring to go, cock slick with the leftover lube and come in his man's ass. And Thor interrupting sexy times. It's not fair.

The bed shifts as his man rolls over to snatch up the phone. “Hey, Thor.”

A deep voice on the other end of the connection says something that's too muffled to understand.

“Right now?” Steve rubs a hand over his face to chase away any remaining sleep. “Okay. We'll be there as soon as we can. Just don't let him out of your sight.”

The call ends, Steve huffs with irritation, and he rolls to sit on the edge of the bed, face screwing up with disgust. “I'm gonna have to wear an adult diaper. Your semen's gonna be leaking outta me for days, Buck. Don't get me wrong, I love you coming inside me, but the after effects are less lovely.”

All he can think to do is muffle laughter against his pillow. When he gets his breath back, he responds, “Not gonna lie. I kinda like the idea of you dripping with my spunk.”

“You would. Come on. Thor's waiting for us at the academy.”

“But why?” That note of whining is back in his tone.

“Something about Loki.”

“Can't we put it off? Just long enough for me to get inside this ass once more?” He practically throws himself across the bed in order to emphasize what ass he's talking about by biting it, causing Steve to yelp and fly off the bed.

“Buck! I'm serious, sugar.”

“So am I.” He's got his Murder Face on, the one that says he's a predator intent on tackling its prey, and comes up onto hands and knees to stalk his lover across the bed.

“Bucky, be serious. Thor asks for so little.”

“I am serious. This is my serious face.” 

Lips curling into a half-smile, he lunges from the bed, and Steve instinctively catches him about the middle to prevent him from falling, allowing Bucky to wrap both legs around his man. He bites Steve's bottom lip, and Steve can't seem to decide whether he wants to laugh or squawk in indignation.

They get lost kissing each other for a few minutes before Steve finds his Captain America fortitude and winds up prying Bucky off him with a growled, “Thor's waiting. Are we really gonna keep a demi-god waiting while we fuck for the fifth time in one night?”

“Yep. We can make it a quickie.”

*

A full hour later, Bucky strolls into the academy with a grin painted on his lips, like a cat who got its way. Technically, that description is accurate. Bucky did get his way. It means they aren't walking around being made uncomfortable with raging boners at the very least.

Thor waits for them in Steve's office, and Bucky moves to flank his man, gaze trained on the kid seated next to the golden thunder god. Said kid has a milky complexion with black hair and a long, angular face. He can't be older than fourteen by the looks of him.

“It's good to see you again,” Steve says once he's seated. “Word has it the hammer chose Jane to be its current wielder. That's gotta be awkward.”

“Not entirely. My Jane is certainly a worthy defender of the free world. If I must be found unworthy, then at least the hammer chose someone I trust with my life.”

“So what we can we help you with?”

“This is my brother, Loki.”

Proverbial crickets chirp.

“That's not-- Do you have a second brother named Loki? Because the Loki we fought during the New York Invasion was a full grown adult.”

Loki makes a scoffing sound before shooting his brother a glance full of daggers.

“Magic is a fickle thing, you understand. Some spells require an exchange of equal value. In this instance, my brother sacrificed his adulthood to return our father from the pocket dimension he has been consigned to for some years.”

“Getting to relive your youth doesn't seem like much of a sacrifice.”

“I can assure you that such a predicament for my brother is tantamount to torture. He complains of--”

“Acne,” interrupts Loki.

“And losing his glamorous--”

“I was stunning in my adulthood, a svelte beauty that attracted attention across the universe. Look at me now, Rogers. Look at me. I am awkward.”

Bucky nearly giggles because the kid certainly does look awkward, all legs and bird bones and gigantic eyes with none of the refinement that adulthood brings.

“Also, the magic--”

“Children don't have the strength necessary for some of the spells I took for granted. Look at my hands. They aren't large enough or strong enough or deft enough to mold the magical fabric to my will. I'm... I'm normal. How can you, a human, possibly understand the torture of normalcy?”

Steve takes all this in while glancing back and forth between the two Asgardians. “So what do you want with us?”

“Loki needs a place where he'll stay out of trouble, a place that can protect him in his weakened condition, and he's been banished from Asgard until further notice for disposing of our king and usurping the throne.”

“I didn't usurp the throne!” Loki squeaks, voice threatening to crack. “I removed a senile old man from stewardship of the Nine Realms, and since you decided to gallivant back to Earth to play kissy-face with your human woman, someone needed to step into the vacuum left behind.”

“He usurped the throne,” Thor asserts.

“Did not.”

“Regardless,” Steve cuts in. “You want him to what? Attend school here at the academy?”

“Would you? That would be such a weight off my shoulders, Captain, to know my brother is here where he can be protected should one of his mortal enemies, and he has collected quite the number of enemies, find him.” Thor's countenance goes sickeningly sweet, long golden lashes smudging shadows against his cheekbones as he bats them.

“What are we supposed to do with him if he hatches another plot to overtake the known world? Last time I had anything to do with Loki, he was Hell belt on world domination and manipulating the Avengers into a grudge match.”

“Let me assure you that his power is quite limited at this age. He can perform certain feats of magic, but the incredibly dangerous things are still beyond his reach. I believe he'll be quite harmless surrounded by so many skilled people, and in the process, he may learn something of humility.”

“Hardly,” scoffs Loki.

“Are you willing to sign consent forms allowing us to discipline as needed should his behavior become disruptive? Nothing physical, mind you. We don't beat children here, but it might become necessary to deprive him of his privileges or lock him in a closet and forget where we placed the key.”

“You have my permission to handle him in whatever method ensures his cooperation as long as it does not become emotionally or physically abusive. I trust you, Captain, to care for and nurture my beloved brother in my absence.”

Loki eye-rolls like a pro.

“In that case, he can join Bucky's early-morning urban warfare class.”

“He cannot!” Bucky exclaims.

Alas, he's still grumbling about spoiled demigods and lovers who have perfected the art of the puppy dog look when he guides Loki into the classroom by the scruff of his neck. The rest of the kids snap to attention. Even Anya deigns to crawl down from the rafters to inspect their newcomer, and Loki turns his nose up like he's caught a whiff of something foul when the kids try to welcome him.

Clearly, he's a big boy who has his big boy panties on and doesn't need other people his own age.

Bucky scoffs. He leaves them to it for the time being, concerning himself with setting up the projection program on his laptop. That's when he notices Karolina sulking in the corner instead of painting her nails with Molly as is their usual pre-class ritual. The idea of ignoring his kids doesn't settle the way it once did, so he doesn't even bother making excuses for approaching her.

His back hits the wall, and he slides down it to sit beside her. “What's up?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, Kiddo. You can talk to your old pal, Bucky. Something's eating at you.”

A shrug shifts her shoulders while she concentrates on picking something from beneath her fingernail. Moments later, she must decide he isn't going away without an explanation, so she blows out a breath that stirs the blond bangs framing her face. “I miss my friends.”

“I'm guessing you're talking about friends out there.”

Her response comes as a nod. “Molly and me, we used to hang with this group out on the west coast. Called ourselves the Runaways. Then War Machine shows up just as we get done fighting this bad dude. He was part of Pride. Anyhow, this guy shows up.

“Everybody manages to get away 'cept Molly. She used to wear this stupid costume she made out of bed sheets or something.” Karolina huffs but can't hide her smile. “Okay, she was kinda cute. So Molly's costume gets caught on something, and I go back for her. We're a family, you know. You don't leave your family behind.

“So War Machine, he catches both of us and drags us to Washington. Places us with these people who work for S.H.I.E.L.D like they're gonna be our foster parents. Screw that! We don't need no parents. Not after what ours got up to.

“Anyways, we run away from the Stepford 'Rents, but War Machine catches us again. Says he's not gonna leave us living on the streets by ourselves. Him and Director Hill decide we should be brought here and trained up.”

“But you don't wanna be here,” he finishes for her.

“I mean, it's not so bad. You're aces, Sargent Bee, but it's not home, you know.”

“Thing is, you're just kids. You shouldn't have to live on the streets by yourself. Who's gonna look out for you? Who's gonna take care of Molly when she gets sick? How you gonna get food and meds?”

“We did all right on our own!”

“But you don't gotta.”

Shit-pickles. Talk about déjà vu.

She must read something into his existential crisis—this is the second person he's said that to—because Karoline sits quietly for a couple of moments, fiddling with the worn cuffs of her sleeves.

“I just miss the others. Nico and Chase. Gert and--” She pauses a beat before continuing, “Xavin. She's-- I love her.”

“Jesus Christ, kid. Rhodes tore you away from your SO?”

She nods, a quick, jerky movement.

“Okay.” His breathing becomes a little panicky. “Okay. I'm gonna call Rhodes. See if there's anything we can do. Maybe the rest of your group would be willing to come here, live on site, receive the same kind of training. Let me just make a few calls.”

“You'd do that?” She looks up at him with bright, blue eyes, and shit-pickles, her eyes remind him so much of Steve's, they hurt. He can't not do anything when she's looking at him like that.

“Yeah, kid. 'Course I'd do that. After class, I'll get on the phone with Rhodes.”

She threads her fingers through his metal digits.

He squeezes hers gently.

Then, without another word, he climbs back to his feet to get class started, groaning when he finds Loki and Anya up in each other's faces. Apparently, Bad News Bear said something about Sooraya's religious practices, and Anya, who's grown into a leadership position amidst the rest of the kids, is jumping to Dust's defense.

“Enough! Loki, laps. Start running them.”

“I will not.”

“You will, or I'll tell them about your terrible fear of ac--”

He doesn't get the rest of it out before the preteen menace lopes around the classroom. And it isn't just a method of discipline. Kid's got basically no muscle mass and the stamina of a chinchilla. He needs to build himself up, and Bucky needs to understand Loki's strengths and weaknesses before throwing him into a simulation with the rest of the group.

By the looks of things, Loki's planning on murdering him before he can figure that out.

Class let's out, and Bucky has a raging headache, so he flops into the chair behind his desk and leans his head back. Silence envelops him. Lovely, wonderful silence. The kind of silence that allows him to get lost in his own mind for a while.

Then someone knocks at his door. He bolts upright but cuts himself off in the middle of a growl upon seeing Laura, who approaches with a hot towel she drapes over his eyes. Her classroom—she teaches a class on using an enemy's psychology against them—is right across from his, so she's likely heard the commotion caused by rabid teenagers disagreeing with Loki-Know-It-All.

“Tough day.”

“It's about to get tougher.”

“Why?”

“I have to call General Rhodes about Karolina and Molly. You wouldn't happen to have his number, would you?” He doesn't bother peeking at her, would rather enjoy the warmth from the hot compress.

“Steve would have it, but I can get it for you. Just stay off your feet for now.”

“Are you hitting on my wife?” Clint asks from the doorway.

Bucky snorts. “Ragingly gay, remember? Not that your wife isn't a total dish. She just lacks the essential part necessary to stretch my asshole and play with my prostate.”

“There's this thing called a strap-on, honey,” she says.

“In that case...”

“Absolutely not. Sweetheart, we are not having a threesome with Murder Eyes.”

“Who said anything about a threesome?”

“Laura!” Their voices fade down the hallway, leaving Buck in silence again.

*

Bucky doesn't get murdered by Loki that night. Rather, he psyches himself up to talk to General Rhodes—he does not like talking to people on the phone; he would much rather communicate while seeing their body language—only to get Rhodes' assistant, who takes a message and promises the general will call him back the following day. It's a relief but also postpones the inevitable.

Instead, he takes Cappuccino for a long ride. She's been feeling left out what with most of his attention going to settling Shàa into his new home. The ride is relaxing, and by the time he gets back, Steve's grilling a few steaks on the deck. After taking a moment to appreciate the domesticity of the scene, he wraps his arms around Steve's waist and drops kisses on the nape of his neck.

His man hums in approval and informs him he's invited the Bartons over for dinner. Clint and Laura recently hired a woman named Doreen to act as nanny for their children, allowing the two of them to enjoy a night away from home without their herd hanging from them.

Clint makes murder eyes at Bucky. He apparently still hasn't forgotten Laura flirting with him that afternoon. Laura says something in her husband's ear that makes him red in the face.

“You want me to what?”

Clint is not a walking disaster. Bucky and he have been in the shooting range often enough for him to respect the man's talent, but he can be a bit naive, and he's got nothing on Laura when it comes to base humor. Probably hasn't heard half the things his wife talks about on a daily basis.

Dinner gives him a chance to get to know them better. Naturally, he gets on with Laura like a house on fire. They are both equally willing to say what's on their mind no matter what their polite company has to say about it. Clint bemoans the fact he's become a stodgy old man who ranks up there with Captain America when it comes to his ability to have fun. Which is zero.

Steve laughs. “Just because I prefer to keep my freak in the bedroom doesn't mean I'm not freaky.”

“God, where's Tony when you need him?”

Steve doesn't stiffen over the mention of Stark's name. Rather, he sags. Something like sadness is clearly visible in his expression before he shutters it away again. Good old Steve Rogers refusing to acknowledge that he has emotions just like the rest of them.

The four of them talk long into the night over beers and wine, so Bucky is still half asleep when Rhodes returns his phone call the following. His hands start shaking. He pushes hair out of his face and answers the phone, but he can't get his hands to stop shaking.

Steve looks at him, clearly concerned.

“General Rhodes, hello. Thanks for getting back to me.”

The conversation isn't easy. Rhodes is the type of man who makes up his mind and doesn't budge which makes convincing him that he may have made a mistake in placing Karolina and Molly at Avengers Academy impossible.

Things get intense until Rhodes says, “Look, Barnes, I get it, but Molly's thirteen years old. Karolina's sixteen. Every journal about childhood development will tell you their brains aren't fully developed. They aren't ready to be making independent decisions that will affect the rest of their lives.

“It's great that you care about them so much. Believe me, kids like them need someone like you in their corner, but this kind of decision isn't one you can make with your heart. You have to make it with your head, man. Separating them from their support system sucked. It's awful, but we can't let them live on the streets without the proper guidance.”

“I'll give you Molly. She really is too young to be on her own, but Karolina? Kids Karolina's age lived on their own back when I'm from. They had full time jobs and were supporting their families.”

“But don't you want better for these kids?”

The comment lingers in the hollow silence that follows. He tries to control his breathing and can't tell if his sudden anxiety has more to do with his worry for Karolina or talking back to an authority figure.

“Hey, man. Take a deep breath for me, okay?”

The guidance helps. He sucks in a shuddering breath.

“Great. Now let it out slowly.”

Air rushes through his nostrils.

“That's perfect, man. You're doing great. You haven't done anything wrong. Calling me with your concerns is the right thing to do. I'm dealing with a thousand enhanced people and need people like you to be concerned for the ones who slip through my notice. But I want you to you really think about what you're suggesting, okay?”

Bucky nods. Then, upon remembering Rhodes can't see him, he says, “Yeah. It's just, she's so sad. I know what it feels like being away from the people you love and forced to learn things you don't want to learn. It's like we're invalidating all her personal independence.”

“Then how about you find a compromise?”

“A compromise?”

Their compromise is simple. Rhodes received information regarding the location of the rest of the Runaways but hasn't had the time or forces to fully investigate. Instead, he leaves it to Bucky to reach out and convince the rest of the kids to become students at Avengers Academy, which won't be easy given how reclusive they've been.

Rhodes has given him this mission. It's his first official mission sanctioned by the Vigilante Amendments, and for some reason, he greets it with equal parts joy and trepidation. Maybe it means he's part of something good for a change. Maybe he takes it as a sign that he's really free from Hydra. Maybe it's because he can use the skills Hydra forced upon him to build instead of destroy.

Bucky's shaking so badly from the adrenaline crash that Steve scoops him up and settles him in the safety of his lap. Warm arms surround him. Soft lips graze his temple.

He huffs, “I don't know why I feel so stupid. He didn't say anything to make me feel-- God, I don't know what I'm feeling right now. S-sorry.”

“Hey, don't apologize. You want me to set up the holo-projector so you can call Kit?”

“Y-yeah. Please.”

So his man sets up the projector, attaches it to Bucky's laptop, and starts the program. A telephone rings a handful of times before the call connects and a holographic projection of Kit appears in the chair by the windows.

“Good morning, Bucky,” she greets while arranging her tea tray.

“Morning. Steve's getting the tea ready. He'll be just a minute.”

Tea is the perfect way for them to connect at the start of each session. Makes him feel more like she's right there with him and reminds him of those early days when the tea ritual gave him a way to lower his defenses enough to open up during sessions.

After Steve leaves the tray—Kit sent the Japanese tea set to him as a housewarming present—on their nightstand, he pours hot water over the leaf ball and inhales deeply of the rich aroma.

“Now,” Kit begins after setting her cup on the saucer, “tell me what ails you.”

Bucky laughs a little. “I just made myself look like an idiot in front of someone important.”

So he starts at the beginning, cup cradled between his hands. He tells her about Karolina finally talking to him, about calling Rhodes to discuss the issue and how he should have known the American government wasn't going to let a sixteen year old go back on the streets. Then, he moves on to Rhodes giving him a mission to bring in the rest of the Runaways. Finally, he mentions the shaking, and fuck, he feels like an idiot for getting so emotional over something other people take for granted.

“It's like I can't even behave like an adult, Kit. Other adults talk on the phone to their bosses without fucking up. It turned into this whole, huge issue, and I can't even-- God, why does it take so much out of me to make a goddamn phone call? I'm so stupid.”

“What did we say about calling ourselves names?”

“Bite me,” he snipes, but there isn't any heat behind it.

“No thank you. You probably taste like raw lemons and liver.”

That startles him out of his rant and makes him chuckle again. “Don't know. I might like it too much if you bit me. Then I'd leave Steve for you, and he'd fall apart without me.”

A few beats of silence pass before Kit continues, “I think you have a few issues going on here. Discomfort over talking on the phone is quite common. Most human communication takes place through body language, and the telephone robs us of our ability to read body language.

“Then there's your difficulty disagreeing with people, especially authority figures. Hydra trained you to expect punishment if you disagreed, so it's completely natural you're having this issue.

“Lastly, I think you're having trouble parsing the nuance of human behavior and interaction. You obviously care deeply about Karolina. If you don't allow her to return to her loved one, you feel like you're betraying her trust, but in returning her to her love one, you also hurt her.

“It's normal that you're having trouble with the duality of emotion versus logic. You're just now beginning to understand your emotional reactions. It takes practice to make decisions that go against what your emotions are screaming at you.”

The rest of the session goes well, and by the time he ends the conference, he feels like a weight's been lifted. Part of his homework involves practicing saying 'no' to people, so when he flops onto Steve's lap in the common room and Steve asks him if he wants to go out for breakfast, he tells him no. 'Cause he really doesn't feel like looking like a normal human long enough to eat out.

Then, grinning, he smacks a kiss on his man's cheek, makes them smoothies, packs them lunch, and gets them out the door so they aren't late for school. 

He spends the day practicing. Laura sticks her tongue out when he says 'no' to karaoke night at the local watering hole (he has a mission and a trip out west to plan to find the Runaways). Tassy, who he's bouncing gently in his arms, gets fussy and roots around on his chest looking to nurse, and he tells her 'no' 'cause he doesn't have the proper equipment for that (sometimes he daydreams about being pregnant and nourishing Steve's baby with his own body).

By the time he enters his classroom, he realizes it's going to be one of those days. The kids are rambunctious and practically bouncing off the walls, so it's surprising when one barked word has them falling into line. Shaun nudges Molly in the side when she opens her mouth to say something.

“Were you taken over by pod people?” he asks. His glare narrows. “You're all up to something.” Molly and Karolina aren't doing their nails. He doesn't have to steal their bottle of polish. “If you tell me now, I'll forget this attempted mutiny you've all concocted.

Sooraya rams her shoulder into Karolina's when it looks like the other Runaway is about to break ranks. At the other end of the line, Loki looks completely bored.

Bucky keeps his eyes out for impending doom, but nothing prepares him for the loud snapping sound he encounters when he goes to the lockers to get out the equipment. One second, he's fine. The next, he finds himself on the ceiling looking down at the world, body completely immobile. He can't even wriggle his damn fingers, and that's when he notices a green glow surrounded Loki's hands.

Then, with shouts of victory, the kids pull ladders into position and attack him with rolls of duct tape. Before he knows it, he's ensconced inside a cocoon, and the kids are holding hands and skipping from the classroom to go do whatever mayhem teenagers get involved with.

He shouts himself hoarse, but no one hears him.

Steve finds him later that evening, the frantic look in his eyes quickly replaced with amusement. He's clearly trying to keep from laughing, but Bucky can't find anything amusing about having been one-upped by his students and left to pay the consequences of his laxity.

Patience, Steve cautions? He can do patience. He was a sniper. Snipers are used to sitting in position for hours on end without making a single movement. Patience? Those kids won't know what hit them by the time he's through with them. They colluded with Loki, a newcomer, over him, their faithful instructor. As far as he's concerned, they've sealed their fate.

Before he can even begin to lay the foundation for their comeuppance, Tony pays a visit. That man has no affiliation with Avengers Academy, so it's apparently a social call.

Worried, Bucky dismisses class and hurries back to his office to activate the bugs he planted in Steve's. Of course he bugged his boyfriend's office. As if he isn't going to do everything to protect his man, up to and including monitoring him during secret meetings with people who attempted to kill him.

The bugs come online in the middle of an argument. Surprise. Surprise.

“Shows what you know, Grandpa Rogers. See, me? I couldn't care less how you've been doing, but I imagine it's sparkly and filled with all that earnest 'Ah shucks' thing you got going on.”

“Tony--”

“Oh, right. All that was just a stage production Senator Brandt glossed you over with. 'Cause you're really all about breaking the law. I mean, gosh darn, we were all bowled over when the good old captain of the US of A became a fugitive from the United Nations.”

“It's not my fault none of you knew what I'm capable of. They must have left it out of the history books that I disobeyed direct order and parachuted into Austria to save those men.”

“Oh God, do I have to hear this story again?”

“What do you want from me, Tony?”

“You were the one constant in my life, and you let me down!”

Crickets could have chirped in the silence that follows.

“But you hate me. You've always hated me.”

“Yeah, 'cause my dad couldn't ever shut up about you. 'Cause he expected me to live up to your image. 'Cause he loved you more than he loved me.”

“That's not my fault.”

“I know, goddamn it!” Then, quieter, he repeated, “I know. Kinda easier to take it out on the guy standing right in front of me than a corpse locked in a mausoleum.”

“For what it's worth, I'm sorry.”

“I'm sure you are. 'Cause you're the champion of moral justice and emotional equality. 'Cept when it comes to your pal, Bucky. Then it's all bets off. He comes before everyone else.”

“Haven't you ever loved someone like that?”

Tony snorts. It sounds like he's pacing. Then, after tense silence, he says, “No. I've always loved myself and my work before anyone else. I mean, I love Pepper, and Rhodey, and Happy, but if I had to choose between them and my brilliance? Maybe you can be that sacrificial. I can't.”

“I think you don't know what you're capable of until you've been faced with it. The way you handled the Mandarin when Pepper was in danger? You blew up your suits for her. You chose her first.”

“God, don't make me feel all sappy inside, Capsicle.”

“Where do we go from here?”

“Fuck if I know. Yeah, yeah. Watch your gosh darn language, Tony.”

Bucky can practically hear Steve smiling.

“It's not like you and me were best pals,” Steve says.

Tony's voice, when he speaks, is full of that self-confident swagger he's known for. “I don't know, buddy, I let you live in my tower. Taught you all about modern technology. Tried to get you drunk a few times before giving up. Let you drive me to my mother's grave.”

Bucky winces. Tony is a mama's boy. No question about it. The fact that he allowed Steve inside the ritual of visiting his mother is telling. Anyone but Steve Rogers can see that.

Steve makes a distressed sound. “Tony--” He's interrupted.

“I use one-liners and flashy talk to keep people at bay, you know. If I distract them with my sparkling wit and incredible brilliance, maybe they won't see how fucked up I am inside, how impossible it is for me to really be myself because I don't know myself either. Not like I learned social skills. 

“See, you think our friendship was superficial because you interpreted my behavior as snobbery, like I thought I was better than you, but I know that's not true. This whole thing where I stand up for my beliefs over my bottom line is a relatively new development. You perfected it when you came out of your mom's womb squalling your head off and refusing to die.

“So, points to you for falling for the self-constructed image I project to the world. Means you're normal, I guess. Normal isn't such a bad thing, you know. Do you have any idea what it's like growing up completely sequestered from your peers? Living just off a college campus in a luxurious penthouse when you're sixteen? Everyone around you's going to parties, and you're stuck with a nanny and chauffeur for company 'cause your parents are too busy to live there with you.”

“I think I do know a little of what that's like,” Steve admits. “All those illnesses growing up? You don't go to school much when your immune system is shot and a stiff breeze infects you with some new death plague determined to end your existence.”

“Stop it. Stop looking at me with those puppy dog eyes, like you're some shaggy golden retriever. The beard and hair are really working, by the way. If your eyes get any sadder, I'll have to buy you a baseball franchise just to cheer you up.”

Silence falls between the two men.

Tony breaks it by saying, “So yeah, we were friends. At least I thought so. And when you chose Barnes over me-- No, it wasn't even that. The fact that you knew and didn't tell me...”

“I didn't mean to hurt you.”

“Yeah, you did.”

Steve rephrases. “You were just collateral damage.”

“It's like you got blinders on when it comes to Barnes. Nothing else matters but him, so I don't think you care about anyone or anything when he's in danger. Shit, you let Wilson and the rest of them get arrested by Ross and thrown in a maximum security prison over him.”

“It wasn't about saving Bucky. There were other super soldiers.”

“Look me in the eyes and tell me you would have done anything different if it meant keeping Barnes out of danger? Bet you a whole art department you can't.”

A moment passes before Steve responds, “I can't do that. It would be a lie.” Quieter, he says, “I really hurt you, didn't I?”

“It's okay, Capsicle. I'm used to being the bad guy.”

“You're not a bad guy, Tony. You're not. You just have this awful habit of getting something into your head and gnawing at it like a dog with a bone. You're shit at self-care. Then your issues bleed onto everyone around you.” 

“See. That right there? God, I still wanna punch you in your perfect teeth. You praise me and then couch it in a critique about my mental health. Trust me, we're all aware we don't live up to your--”

Steve interrupts to say, “I'm shit at self-care, too.”

A beat of silence follows.

Tony says, “Whoa. Wait. What? The Great Capsicle admits to his own neurotic state? And the Heavens opened and angels fell from the sky crying 'Hallelujah.'”

“I've been told I can be overbearing. Sometimes I have a hard time admitting it. Men didn't admit to shit like that back in the day. That's one of the strangest things about this modern world to me. Everyone talks about their problems. It's...” Steve doesn't finish his comment verbally.

Tony doesn't say anything in response.

Steve continues, “You're right, you know. When it comes to Bucky, I can't see the forest for the trees. Maybe that's my personal failing, but with everything--” He huffs. “I should have told you about your parents. You deserved to know. I think you and me have had trouble communicating for a long time.”

“Maybe I have a little something to do with that. Takes two to-- Well, not to Tango, 'cause I've heard your Tango sucks, but it takes two to miscommunicate?”

Steve takes a breath and continues, “I really am sorry things went down the way they did. But I love him. Please don't ask me to choose between you again.”

“We all know what choice you'd make.”

“It's the same one you'd make if Pepper or Rhodey were in his position. We love who we love, and we'll go to the ends of the world for them.”

A beat of silence passes.

Steve asks, “You think we can ever be friends again?”

“Are you kidding? You're like a bad fungus I can't get rid of. Like jock itch or something. Just don't expect me to fall all over Barnes. I mean, he's not murdering people right now. That's good, but I don't know if I can ever look him in the face and not think about my mom.”

“Fair's fair. I just want to take this opportunity to point out that I was right, and you were wrong.”

A bark of laughter erupts from Tony. “Yeah, well, I guess your judgment wasn't as askew as I thought. Hey, you should come check out my new digs some time. I sold the tower. It was an eyesore. Too much liability for Manhattan having our team name plastered on a giant building.”

“God, please tell me it's not in Jersey.”

“What the Hell do you take me for, Rogers? A barbarian? Of course it's not in Jersey!”

They fall silent, and seconds later, the door of Steve's office opens and closes.

Bucky sits back in his chair. He thinks about what he just overheard. He thinks about how Kit said humans are full of nuance and how someone can care about a person while still inadvertently hurting them. Things are never black and white; he should know that better than anyone.

Somehow, he has allowed the black to overwhelm the white when it comes to Tony Stark and Steve Rogers. Tony became the enemy. Steve was placed on a pedestal. Every instinct inside him screams to protect and defend Steve no matter the situation, but isn't Steve human, too? Doesn't Steve have blinders, too? Lord knows that guy can be combative as Hell sometimes.

Of course that means he has no one to blame about the goings on in Siberia. Tony deserves to feel his grief. Steve deserves the right to choose saving a friend and loved one. Bucky deserves... Bucky deserves the right to live and be happy again after Hydra.

That means Siberia was a tense situation where human emotion boiled over. It means Steve is fallible and betrayed a friend's trust to make things easier on himself. It means Bucky's... It means Bucky needs to work harder to be more objective. That's what humans do. They relearn and reinvent and hopefully come out better in the end.

He stays out of the way for the rest of Tony's visit, only briefly catching a glimpse of them heading into the new training gym. From what he can tell, they spend most of the afternoon together one-upping each other on the obstacle course.

Later, once Steve comes home and snuggles down on the sofa with Bucky, Bucky wraps both arms around him and kisses the crown of his man's head. They settle in to watch a few episodes of Spartacus: Blood and Sand, which is just a smorgasbord of well-honed male bodies.

He murmurs into Steve's blond hair, “I'm so proud of you, sweetheart.”

“I'm not very proud of myself. All this time, I've been boiling in my own righteousness, but it's not like I'm the victim here. What I did to Tony was wrong. Hurting him was wrong. I wouldn't change how I reacted during the Accords fiasco, but it was still wrong to take it out on Tony.”

*

About a week after Tony's visit, Bucky knocks on the door of Steve's office. Tassy is in a sling across his chest, and while waiting for Steve to finish his phone call, he drops his lips to the crown of her head. She smells like baby powder, and it's calming for some reason.

Steve ends his call and smiles. “Field trip day, right?”

Bucky nods.

“Are you nervous?”

He nods.

“If you want, I can take some time off and go with you.”

“No thanks. I need to-- I should be able to do this by myself.”

“Nothing says you gotta, Buck.”

“I want to.”

“All right then. Here are the keys to the van.” Steve moves around his desk to press a set of keys into Bucky's hand. “You have the school's card in your wallet, right?”

Bucky nods.

“They're each allowed to spend a hundred dollars. You remember how to use the computer built into your watch to track their locations, right?”

He nods.

“If you have any trouble, give me a call. And try to have a good time, okay?”

Grinning, he stands straighter to press his mouth against Steve's.

He's turning to leave when Steve calls, “Oh, and remind everyone to use Loki's alias in public.”

Wrangling seven teenagers and an infant into a van at the same time isn't easy, but he manages it. Once the kids are seated with their belts locked, he moves behind the van and pauses there for a few seconds. Then, he's behind the wheel, putting the van into drive, and heading down the access road to the main highway. Driving isn't problematic anymore, not after his trip across country.

It isn't until they're on the main highway heading to the nearest mall when it first happens. A car loaded down with some high school kids pulls up beside them. The driver lays on the horn. Two passengers stick their heads out and scream “Hi, Ari!”

See, integrating a kid named Loki into Earth society after he attempted overtaking the planet with an army of aliens isn't easy. Best case scenario, people figure the kid's parents are secretly Nazis who long for world domination. Worst case scenario? Someone actually figures out the kid is Loki and causes an interplanetary incident by attacking a prince of Asgard.

So, Loki is now a Norwegian citizen named Ari who's attending school in the United States and whose older brother serves as his guardian. He's also suffering from an intense case of acne and hates being the center of attention. So when another car honks and screams out his name, he scoots farther down in his seat and pulls his head inside the neckline of his t-shirt.

“How the fuck do they--”

“Language!” Bucky shouts from the driver's seat.

“I hate you,” hisses Loki.

“Tough toodles, kid. You're stuck with me.”

Another car whizzes past with horn blaring, and Loki whines, voice cracking as he does so. By the time they pull into the parking lot of the mall, he's begged (literally) Gentle into switching seats with him and is hanging off the end of the bench seat in his efforts to hide from the outside world.

No one realizes anything is amiss until Molly cracks up laughing and points to the sign Bucky taped to the van's rear end. It reads “Honk and say Hi Ari!”

Loki's expression could freeze lava.

Once they're inside, he shuffles the kids into two groups and instructs them to meet him in the food court in three hours, and if any security guards track him down, he is totally not bailing them out of jail (a total lie, he'd never let his kids languish in prison) and will deny everything.

Shaun, Loki, and Gentle take off toward Hot Topic. Karolina, Anya, and Sooraya head off in the direction of some girly boutique filled with lots of pink, and Molly chooses to stay with Bucky, who's pushing a stroller containing Tassy.

He takes Molly to get some new sneakers since she's growing like a weed and goes through shoes and clothes like crazy. Then, they stop and pick out a pair of fairy wings for Tassy, who becomes enthralled by the intense colors and glitter inside the store and drools down her chest. He crouches, wipes her up, and doesn't know what to make of the middle aged dame who coos over how amazing of a father he must be to take his girls out by himself.

But... What do single fathers do? Don't they take their kids out by themselves? The thought of kids makes him strangely warm and cuddly inside. Maybe he could talk to Steve about-- Well, obviously he can't produce a child of his own. Incompatible body parts (which is something he intends on pouting about later, because he's really curious about the experience of being pregnant) and everything means adoption would be their only option.

And shit-pickles, the mental image of Steve cuddling an infant in those huge arms of his, of Steve tenderly bathing their child and putting her to bed does things to Bucky. He's definitely leaning toward a girl. Boys are weird. They pee in your face when they're infants, and you don't get to dress them up in little pink headbands and frilly dresses.

He whips out his cell and texts Steve while Molly is in the bathroom. (Bucky is totally standing right outside the girl's bathroom to make sure no one suspicious follows Molly in.)

His text reads, “Steve, I think I want to have a baby.”

When his man responds, there's a picture attached of Steve wearing his coffee along with him saying, “I don't know what to say to that, Buck. It's something we really need to talk about.”

“But I want one,” he texts back.

“Can we talk about this when you get back? I'd really like to have this conversation in person.”

“But you'll think about it?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Okay. XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO”

He goes overboard. Molly has him wrapped around her little finger, and every time she so much as pouts at him, he can't help but give in and get her that really cute t-shirt she's eyeballing. It's also entirely possible Tassy winds up with several new shirts and dresses, but he can't help it. Really.

When the three hours are up, he lets Molly climb onto his back (she's tired of walking, okay?) and pushes Tassy up to the food court. Some of the other kids are already there. He buys Molly a hamburger, gets himself some pizza, and sits at a table with their lunch, going back and forth between feeding himself and making sure Tassy's bottle is supported.

Out of the blue, Molly says, “Is it weird that I like you more than my parents?'”

Bucky almost chokes on his pizza.

“I mean, sometimes I really miss 'em, but they're super-villains, you know, and they wanted me to grow up and do bad things the way they do. That means they're not very good parents, right? But you're good. You take me shopping and buy me tampons and take care of Tassy real good.”

“I don't think that's weird, kiddo.” He feels ike one of those characters in the Japanese cartoons Karolina and Anya watch, the ones with huge, watery eyes and a tear drop beside their heads. “Family you pick's just as important, 'specially if your blood family don't treat you right.”

She nods to herself before carrying on with her hamburger.

Bucky is just about dying of squee, meanwhile, and reaches over to tug on the ear of her crotchet fox hat. “Long as I can call you 'Princess Powerful.'”

She grins and gives him two thumbs up.

Unfortunately, that's the last schmoopy thing that happens at the mall. Because people suck. Sooraya, Anya, and Karolina enter the food court and join their male compatriots near a hot pretzel shop. Some asshole makes a comment about Sooraya's traditional clothing. That's bad enough. What really gets Bucky's bells ringing is when said asshole and his three friends make a threatening move toward her.

He's on his feet fast as a bullet but isn't the first to arrive. Anya places herself between Sooraya and the assholes and gets herself called something vile in the process. Picking on two teenage girls might make them feel like men, but the assholes aren't prepared for Bucky's kids closing ranks around the girls.

Shaun and Nezhno are big guys, too, and use their bulk to back the assholes away from the girls. One of the assholes calls his boys something vicious for being black and aggressive, and he's just about to drop the hammer on them when Loki shoves his way to the forefront.

“Pathetic,” Loki drawls, sounding lazy and uninspired. “Grown men taking out their ignorance on teenagers. Being so un-evolved must truly be awful to have made you so sour.”

The men aren't sure what to do with Loki's silver tongue.

“Run along back to the primordial soup you crawled from. Perhaps in a few million years, you'll be worthy of having an educated conversation about how diverse genetics create a stronger specimen. Skip back to your island of white nationalism. In a few hundred years, their offspring,” he pauses to wave a hand in the general direction of the rest of Bucky's kids, “will invade your island and decimate your population with small pox. That is what happens, you realize, when a certain genetic strain becomes completely isolated. They become weak to outsiders.”

The outsiders grumble something about mouthy kids and hurry away.

Shaun squeezes Loki's shoulder in thanks.

“This doesn't mean I like you,” hisses Loki. “I just have this urge to sever vicious tongues from ignorant mouths.”

By the time the kids have handled the situation, Sooraya is in tears. She goes home with a fluffy Havanese puppy, because Bucky? Bucky can't stand seeing people he cares about cry. He has a credit card, and he's dangerous.

*

The dog days of summer arrive. It's August, and New York is going through a heat wave that's making everyone crabby. Even Steve, who at least pretends to be mild-mannered, turns cranky, and one household containing a cranky Steve and a crabby Bucky is bound to produce fireworks.

Thankfully, their variety of fighting has settled into the rhythm of short blasts of anger followed by soothing words and make-up sex. They never go to be angry, and they never sleep apart.

Trouble is that Steve's pissy moods are aggravated by his schedule. Rhodes has Steve in meetings constantly to make sure the Avengers are getting the best possible recruits from the academy. Between those meetings and a flurry of press conferences announcing the academy to the public and rebuilding the Avengers brand (because apparently the Avengers have a brand name now that include officially licensed jerseys and sportswear) his man is swamped.

Like “bury my body in the bayou with the alligators” swamped.

Bucky does what he can. He takes over meals. He does the laundry. He completes paperwork, but he can still see the stress piling high on his man's shoulders, and a stressed out Steve is the eye of a hurricane. It's that reason Bucky doesn't ask Steve to go with him to the horse show.

See, Bucky has become all things horse in the past couple of months and thinks his babies have a real shot at winning awards. They are just that awesome, but it's entirely possible he's biased. One of his online horse friends talks him into competing at the New York State Fair, and in place of Steve accompanying him, he asks Shaun.

The morning of, he kisses Steve's sleepy mouth and assassin-stalks from the room to avoid rousing Sleeping Cranky, Snoring Tiger, who has another meeting in a few hours, and heads downstairs. A cobalt Silverado is parked by the barn, the horse trailer already attached. The truck and trailer were Bucky's first purchases without asking Steve's permission, and he probably went a little overboard considering the trailer is massive and contains small living quarters for himself.

Oh well, he deserves nice things, right?

Shaun's already there leaning against the truck and holding two thermoses. “You look like Hell, Bee-Bear,” he says while offering one giant thermos in Bucky's direction. The kid is an infuriating morning person who reminds him entirely too much of Steve.

Harrumphing, he snatches the thermos to guzzle the bitter contents, dark and rich just the way he likes it. Finally, he says, “You ready, squirt?”

“Ready to get murdered by Captain American for abducting you out from under him?”

“Don't call him that. He doesn't like when people call him Captain America anymore. Besides, Sam's Captain America, and Steve would deny me sex if I stole Sam's thunder.”

“I really don't wanna hear about your sex life, Teach.”

“Besides, Steve knows I'm going to the show with you.” He offers a cheeky smile and sticks the thermos in a cup-holder next to the driver's seat. “So stop sassing me so we can load the horses.”

Cappuccino, who is not a diva, loads easy as pie once Biscuit Butt is on board. Bucky's convinced she'd follow her boyfriend off the edge of a cliff. She steps up into the trailer without needing coaxing and goes immediately to nose at the hay net awaiting her.

Shàa, on the other hand, is a total diva. He paws the ground, thrashes his head, and behaves like an over-dramatic teenager showing off for the person he likes. Eventually, he boards, at which point, he noses at Cappuccino's muzzle, the horses divided by a solid, steel wall to prevent injuries.

They manage the whole thing without waking Princess Cranky-pants, which is total diamonds. Bucky might get emotional if Steve comes downstairs to see him off. What? It's his first horse show, and he would much rather have his man there cheering him on. So sue him.

More than a hundred other horse trailers have already arrived by the time they get there, and Bucky experiences his first jolt of nerves. He parks beside another trailer that has an elegant Arabian mare tied to the back gate. A grim-faced woman steps out of living compartment wearing the formal breeches, a white shirt, a black jacket, and her helmet tucked beneath her arm. She looks professional.

Bucky does not look professional. He looks like a scruffy nerf herder. He turns and makes to climb back into the truck. “Get in. We're leaving.”

He's prevented from doing so when Shaun nabs the tail of his flannel shirt. “Dude, we just drove almost three hours to get here. You're not going home 'cause you got cold feet.”

A growl emanates from Bucky's chest.

Shaun plants both fists on his hips.

It becomes the stand-off at the OK-fucking-Corral, but if there's one thing Bucky's learned about Rayshaun Lucas, it's how fucking stubborn the kid is. Growing up in gentrified Brooklyn with a middle-class family hasn't saved him from bullshit like profiling. It's presented a whole different set of challenges that resulted in that kid having skin thick as fucking concrete.

Eventually, Bucky huffs his way to the rear of the trailer to off-load the horses. They'll be staying overnight, so he rented space in the fair's barn for his babies. Shaun will sleep in the trailer. Bucky plans on bedding down with his babies. They might get lonely and stressed staying in a strange place.

Shaun nods. “You got an amateur hunter event in an hour, so get changed, and for God's sakes, don't slouch while you're out there.” The comment is punctuated by a slap to Bucky's shoulder blades.

“Who is the Goddamned adult here?”

“Who's acting like a big old crybaby despite having stared down Nazi rifles?”

He huffs and finally caves, moving around to step into the sleeping sleeping compartment. While dressing, he overhears Shaun sweet-talking Cappuccino and grows a tiny bit green with jealousy that his baby girl seems sweet on someone other than himself. The kid has a certain way with animals.

Nerves follow him outside, so he reaches for the Winter Soldier. It's not there. The empty places inside his own mind that allowed him to sink into oblivion when the outside world became too traumatic aren't there anymore. They're filled with the laughter of his kids, the sweet nothings of his man, and the trust of James Rhodes. They're filled with friendship and his hobbies, with Kit and his humanity.

“You okay, Bee-bear?” asks Shaun.

“Yeah. Just realizing something for the first time.”

“You look spiffy.”

He glances down at the creamy riding breeches, the tall black boots, the crisp white shirt, and the tailored jacket and hardly recognizes himself. He's even French braided his hair so it lies neatly beneath the black helmet he carries.

“Thanks.”

Cappuccino acts like a real classy lady inside the ring. She moves through the various gaits with grace, and responds immediately to his signals, the slight press of his heels to increase her gait, the shift of a hand against her withers take her down to a trot. When they're asked to line up for final inspection, she goes beautifully and positions herself into a resting stance.

Bucky and Cappuccino come in fifth out of over fifty in his hunter equitation class. The judge gives him a little pink ribbon, and he trots Cappuccino around to collect his prize, and it makes him feel so fucking normal that wiping the grin off his face isn't possible. The only thing that could make the moment better is if Steve was waiting ringside to greet him.

Steve isn't there, but there seems to be a cheering section in the stands for Bucky, and he glances up to see the rest of his kids, Laura and Clint holding giant signs with his name plastered on them. Warmth floods his heart, making him feel all soft and squishy inside.

Later that evening, Biscuit Butt takes Reserve Champion Stallion in the American Shetland Pony Club class. Bucky is over the moon. He drops to his knees in his pristine breeches, cups the pony's head between his hands and kisses him on the muzzle. He has no idea Biscuit Butt and him would have their pictures plastered all over the internet the following day.

That evening, Shaun and the kids take off to explore the midway. Laura and Clint hang out with him, though, and they stroll through the fair at a more sedate pace. The scents of popcorn and cotton candy surround them. The din of people, the electronic ping of the various games, the distant roar of engines from the various machine competitions bleed into one giant tapestry.

He buys the three of them giant ice cream cones, and they sit for a while to watch the crowd pass and eat their treats. Clint turns his hearing aides off at some point, but it doesn't inhibit their conversation. Bucky learned sign language during his youth to compensate for Steve's bad hearing.

After eating, Clint challenges him to ride the Cyclone. They stand up against a the round exterior of the ride, strap themselves in, and then the ride surges into motion, spinning them like a centrifuge. The force plasters them back against their cushions and lifts them from their feet.

Ride after ride follows, and each time they disembark, Laura, who has Tassy strapped to her chest, shakes her head at them, but they don't stop. Not until Bucky heaves his guts up after one too many trips on the Needle. It's a pendulum ride that swings them around and upside down violently.

Then it's off for more food. He has a Hot Beef Sundae, tries the Kangaroo Spiedies, and tops it off with a Donut Epresso Utopia that involves a donut topped with ice cream, bacon, maple syrup, and a shot of espresso. He stuffs his face with a corn dog, mows his way through something that contains sausage and sour kraut, and practically inhales a funnel cake drenched with strawberry preserves and whipped cream. By the time they call it quits for the evening, he feels like Templeton, the rat who eats his way through the fair in Charlotte's Web.

He walks the Barton's and kids to the academy van to see them off where Laura kisses his cheek and tells him that Steve sends his love. Then Shaun and him return to the trailer for the night.

They have most of the following day free, so they check out some of the earlier classes. The Palamino association, the AQHA, and a couple of other breed clubs have their yearly competitions at the Coliseum during the fair, so there aren't a lot of open classes for Bucky to take part in which is great for his first time at a horse show. It gives him plenty of time to check out the other horses and breeds.

But as night falls, he returns to the trailer to get ready for the open barrel race class he entered Shàa in. The last thing he expects when he steps out wearing comfortable jeans and a flannel is to find Steve talking to Shaun. His man looks adorably disheveled.

His heart skips a beat. Excitement and love curl in the pit of his stomach. “Steve?”

Steve's face lights up. “Hey, Buck.”

“I didn't think you'd be able to come.”

“The conference finished early. Sugar, I'm so sorry I couldn't get here sooner. I heard you've been cleaning house.”

“Hardly,” he scoffs.

“Don't let him fool you, Captain Rogers. He got fifth place and Reserve Champion.”

“That kinda sounds like a big deal, Buck.”

He sighs when Steve finally pulls him into those strong arms, one of Steve's hands sliding into his back pocket to grip his ass. It's comforting and makes his chest ache with the fullness of his love for Steve. He stands up straighter to give his man a kiss.

“Guess it's not so bad for an amateur like me.”

“You got ten minutes before you gotta be at the event ring, Bee-Bear.”

“Right. Don't let me make you late. I'll be right there beside Shaun cheering your name.”

Bucky and Shàa lounge around outside the ring entrance until their names are called. They get to run the barrels twice. Once to lay down an initial time, then again to try to beat the other teams who out-performed them. At the end of the night, they take home the blue ribbon.

Whooping, he trots Shàa from the ring and finds Steve standing next to Shaun. They've both got the biggest fucking smiles on their faces, and he suddenly realizes that this is what it feels like to be proud of himself and have others be proud of him. He can't remember ever feeling the fullness, the satisfaction of doing something well that didn't involve killing.

Throwing his leg over the stallion's neck, he allows Steve to grasp his waist and lift him down.

“Oh, sugar, I'm so proud of you. Look at you. Look how far you've come.”

Steve and him christen the living quarters of the trailer that night while Shaun's out prowling the midway. Afterward, with his leg draped over Steve's thighs and his head pillowed on his man's chest, he finally understands what it feels like to be a real boy again. He finally understands what Kit's been trying to get through to him all this time.

He deserves good things, not in spite of what Hydra forced upon him—Hydra didn't take a man and turn him into a weapon but scooped the man from his body and used the empty shell as a weapon—but because he's a human being. He's a human being with all the same assets and flaws as every other human on the planet. And he's finally home where he belongs.

**Mid-Credits Scene:**

Steve walks into Jurassic-fucking-Park when he passes through the blast doors into the landing zone. The man he loves attempts to leave the ship, but is prevented from doing so by a velociraptor, whose teeth are locked onto the back of Bucky's jacket. The velociraptor has a nose ring.

“Gertrude Yorkes, get your ass back here and call this thing off!” Bucky yells after the girl flouncing after Shaun. Several other kids peer around the hangar like they're trying to get the lay of the land.

“Old Lace, come here, girl.”

The raptor releases Bucky's jacket and lopes over to her mistress, who slings an arm around her neck for a quick snuggle. Claws clack-a-clack against the concrete floor, and a sinuous tail swishes back and forth with whip-like strength as the creature nuzzles Ms. Yorkes' back.

“Am I missing something?” Steve asks when Bucky finally emerges.

“They wouldn't come without her.”

“Bucky, there is a fucking dinosaur in our hangar. How can you be so nonchalant?”

“Huh?” Bucky's eyes light up. “Oh! What's the problem?”

“The velociraptor in our hangar.”

“She's actually a genetically-engineered deinonychus commissioned by Gert's parents to act as a guardian and companion animal. Do not get between that girl and Gert, or she'll tear your face off.”

“Bucky.” At this point, Steve's pretty sure his confusion has manifested in whining.

“Don't get your panties in a twist, sweetheart.” Bucky kisses him on the mouth and trails after the rest of the Runaways. Moments later, Karolina's shriek pierces every eardrum in a one mile radius, and she's launching herself at one of the newcomers.

“What the fuck is my life?” Steve asks no one in particular.

**After-Credits Scene:**

The new Avengers facility is not in New Jersey, thank you very much. It is, in fact, in the Bronx inside an old meat packing plant that has been modernized extensively. Holographic devices cloak the building's true facade, making it impossible for ground and aerial surveillance to see the quinjet loading bays or the rooftop terrace with its comfortable swimming pool and jacuzzi.

Upon arrival, Bucky pretends like the ficus behind which he's hiding is incredibly interesting. Ahead of him, the rest of the Avengers organization is gathered around the in-ground pool. Sam's put himself in charge of grilling up steaks and burgers, a beer in one hand, and a spatula in another. Steve's already deep in conversation with the new Captain America regarding some sort of sports game.

Sam must also be in charge of the music. The guy's recently broken up with his girlfriend, Misty, and is stuck in a perpetual loop of sad-sack tunes about how love is a battlefield or some shit. Sam and him don't really get along, so he hears all this via Steve.

Unfortunately, his plan to hide for the entirety of the weekend is thwarted by a bubbly teenager who introduces herself as Riri Williams. Next thing he knows, he's sitting around a patio table with Riri, Jane Foster (who is a fucking brick shit house thanks to picking up Mjolnir and taking on the role of the Mighty Thor; they call her Thordis so as not to confuse her with the actual Thor), Maria Hill, Pepper Potts, and the actual president of the United States, Carol Danvers.

Okay, so he's a little star struck over meeting the president.

They talk mostly about their various projects, and it winds up going right over his head, but eventually, they turn towards a subject he can share his opinion over: personal hygiene. He's just getting into the benefits of coconut oil when Sharon arrives.

He waits for the usual jealousy and insecurity to rear its ugly head. And waits. And waits. It never comes. Huh. When did he become so confident in his relationship with Steve? Also, he knows Sharon wouldn't do anything to come between them. In that respect, she's a better person than Bucky Barnes and his previous passive attempts to usurp Steve's attention.

“Cinnamon Bomb, fancy meeting you here,” greets Sharon.

He rises and drags her into a hug. “How you been, Candy Thighs?”

“Magically delicious? Things are fine. Been busy with the CIA. You ladies know how it is. We gotta work three times as hard to get the same recognition as our male counterparts.”

“Oh my God,” Pepper pipes up, “just last week, the CEO of Roxxon Oil called me 'sweetheart' and insisted I couldn't understand the effects of dwindling fossil fuels on the global economy.”

“A fellow astrophysicist tried to mansplain black holes to me.”

“To you?” Riri shrieks. “You're getting a Nobel Prize for your work in black holes and dark matter.”

“A junior agent at S.H.I.E.L.D re-checked my research into the latest upgrades in the security sector because, and I quote, 'women's brains aren't made for performing in-depth research' end quote,” exclaims Maria. “I busted him back down grunt level.”

“Out-going Ex-President Trump tried to grab my junk while giving me a tour of the Oval Office.”

A collective “Ewww” rose up from the occupants of the table.

“A fellow educator insisted a man like me can't be nurturing enough to bring up the next generation,” Bucky adds. “Okay, so it's not the same as what you girls face. That totally sucks, by the way.”

“No, that's an excellent example of gender stereotyping,” Sharon cuts in. “Because you're a muscular man, you obviously can't be empathetic enough to rear sensitive children. It all comes back to sexual dimorphism and gender stereotyping.”

“At least I'm not getting my junk grabbed by smarmy assholes.”

The women respond in a collective, “Point.”

Their conversation ends abruptly when Tony joins the group. Tension crackles in the atmosphere, and Bucky's well aware everyone is shooting glances between Stark and him to determine whether they should run for cover. Actually, he's not sure if he should run for cover either.

“Nice touch with the Iron Man underpants, Murder-Bot.” He's referring to a recent trip to the beach with the kids wherein Bucky stripped down to a pair of Speedos bearing the Iron Man logo.

“What can I say? A guy's gotta have class, right? Tony, I want--”

“Let's not. Sorry. Had my quota of sharing and caring this month. Ain't that right snookums.” He pauses to press a kiss to Pepper's hair.

Tony grabs their empty beer bottles from the table and takes them off to the recycling bin nearby, allowing them to return to their earlier conversation. Tension lingers in the atmosphere until Riri starts telling a story about one of her much-older classmates at MIT. The way Riri tells stories is hilarious, so they're all laughing again in no time.

**After-After-Credits Scene:**

Bucky opens the door of the Stark Mausoleum and steps inside, a bundle of flowers in one hand, a German beer in the other. His footsteps are silent on the stone floor. He stops beside two sarcophagi situated next to each other, the names engraved on marble covers proclaiming them the resting places for Howard Stark and Maria Carbonell-Stark.

He places the flowers on Maria's sarcophagus and the can of German beer on Howard's. Then, feeling a bit weak in the knees, he sits on a bench opposite their memorials and buries his face in his hands. Tears scald his cheeks. He inhales a shuddering breath, the only sound inside the stagnant tomb.

“I know it's not my fault, not really, but I'm still sorry. You were my friend, Howard, and your wife was just a victim of circumstance. God, I'm so sorry. If I could go back, change things... Sometimes I wish I'd died from the fall instead of becoming what Hydra made me.”

Another breath doesn't do much to bolster his emotions. “Fuck, there was so much I wanted to say, but now I'm here, and I don't got no clue. What I know is that you're dead, and my hands--”

“He used to talk about you, you know.”

Bucky freezes at the sound of Tony's voice.

“Used to flap his jaws about this ballsy sniper who shouldn't have been a smarty-pants but was.”

“Tony, I'm sorry. I'll get outta your way.”

Tony waves a hand dismissively, and they sit together in silence for a while.

Finally, Tony breaks it by saying, “You got any freaking clue how hard it is hating someone you'd otherwise respect? Human emotions are shit like that.” A beat of silence passes. “Thing is that you and me aren't so different. I got kidnapped, tortured. They tried to force me to build a missile for them.” Another beat. “I didn't. Totally built this awesome, weaponized suit, and sometimes I think you should have been able to do the same.”

Bucky remains quiet, just listening.

“Thing is we're not the same, and what the fuck would I have done in your shoes? I've been over some of the Winter Soldier information. The shit they did to you...? Me being me, I'd like to say I could have held out longer than you, but let's face it. This is me we're talking about. I couldn't even withstand a mind-jolt from Wanda without fucking things up and almost destroying the world.”

“Tony...”

“No, it's true. I know this about myself. I'm very reactionary. Find out my weapons are being sold to the enemy? I become Iron Man to stop them. Terrorist hurts my friend? I give him my address and almost get Pepper killed. Get frightened by Wanda? Swarm of Murder-Bots.”

“People make mistakes.”

“My mistake killed thousands of people in Sokovia.”

“You couldn't have known.”

“I should have. I know everything.”

He opens his mouth to respond, scraps that idea, and breathes instead. Finally, he says, “Used to be, I blamed you, too. I thought you created Ultron, and then after things were over, you retired and left Steve to handle the media fall-out. I've grown since then.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I mean, Hell, you still need a bucket full of psychological therapy, don't get me wrong, but you were just desperate to save your family. People do some pretty crazy shit to save their families.”

“Wait, are we having a civil conversation?”

Bucky laughs.

“We can't have that. Not when you're a giant mega-douche.”

“Gotta admit. I'd rather be a mega-douche than a Douche-Rocket 9000.”

“Think Rhodes would let me get away with plastering that across the Avengers logo? Avengers Initiative: Endorsed by Douche-Rocket 9000.”

Their laughter blends together and echoes in the crypt.

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me on tumblr. I'm [MarleyMortis](http://marleymortis.tumblr.com)


End file.
